Aequitas, Veritas, Parilitas, Fidelis
by PerfectDisaster22
Summary: The Boondock Saints have rival killers on their hands. Connor and Murphy MacManus' lives have been complicated by the reappearance of two women. Can the Angels and Saints work together? Can the MacManus men reconcile with the MacCoy women?
1. Irritation and Appreciation

**Author's Note**: About 24 hours after I posted my first BDS one-shot, _The Angel and the Saints_, a new character had made her way into my head. I didn't know her name or her story; all I knew was that she was fascinating, that she was demanding my immediate attention [homework be damned], and I wanted to explore her potential.

It took me a day for the two of us to beat out a rudimentary plot [during which time, I was speaking in an Irish accent that I couldn't for the life of me shake off] and to give her a backstory. It took longer than it usually does for me to find a story; this girl was extraordinarily particular about the kind of story she wanted, and what she would and would not allow me to write for her. The very last thing I learned about her was her name; I knew more of her twin's story than I did of this character's, and it was murder trying to find the perfect name for her [stubborn, demanding brat… I love her]. Besides this, she and her twin got into the [annoying, headache-inducing] habit of routinely revealing plot twists _after_ I was already halfway through writing a chapter, meaning that I'd have to go back and rewrite parts of chapters I'd already completed. Not to mention that I would have to revise future chapters [which, believe me, got to be a huge pain in my arse].

For most of the process of writing the basics of the plot, I thought I would be naming this story _Light and Dark_, and that my theme would be exploring good and evil, hope and despair, secrets and knowledge, which is how I decided the names for my two female leads- one means "bright"; the other comes from a Gaelic surname meaning "black one". Obviously, I decided upon a different title, and the theme has gone in a slightly different direction than I intended. But I did try to incorporate my original thematic motifs into the story.

I've done my best to not make one sister's story more dominant than the other's [which at some points royally fails, but I tried]. I didn't want this to be the story of the character who originally came into my head, where everybody else is seen only through her eyes; I wanted all four main characters to be equally important, and for each of them to have their own voice. I will say, though, that while I did my best not to make one main character more dominant than the other three, there are cycles where one plot will take dominance over another. But I tried to integrate the girls' stories as best I could. Additionally, the story really follows the sisters more than it does the MacManus boys, though I did my best to make them all change and grow through the course of the story. I guess you'll have to judge for yourself how successful I was.

As always, I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything you recognize. This includes [but probably isn't limited to] Connor, Murphy, Ma and Da MacManus, references to the movies or anything that remotely resembles anything else you might have read of any other BDSFF. Though I'm sure some of these ideas have been done to death, I promise all my ideas came from my own head. I do, however, own the MacCoy family [I promise, I didn't steal their name from the famous feuding McCoys of US History], as well as a few other secondary and minor characters.

This story is rated M for violence, some sexual references, and a lot of swearing [which you should have been expecting; it is the Boondock Saints, after all].

**Special Thanks**: My friend George, aka the Lord of Awesomeness, put up with me through this entire writing process and ended up serving as my beta. He was absolutely essential when it came to writing Connor and Da POVs, he was always helpful when I bounced ideas off of him, he helped me make agonizing decisions of all kinds and of all measures of importance, he dealt with me when I was complaining about how difficult everything was being, and somehow he kept me from killing the MacCoys when they messed all my plans up [which they did, with great delight, at least twice a chapter]. So this story is dedicated to him, with many thanks and promises of dozens of backrubs.

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Aequitas

Murphy MacManus was irritated. Cross. Exasperated. Piqued. Disgruntled. Pissed off. Put it how you will, he was annoyed, and he wasn't going to stand for it anymore.

He had woken up late in the afternoon and gone into the surprisingly spacious kitchen of the flat in the Irish neighborhoods of South Boston that he, his brother, and his da were less-than-legally squatting in, only to find that he was alone in the apartment. Normally this didn't bother him; he was used to the senior MacManus' habit of coming and going as he pleased. He was even used to his brother running out on errands at odd times of the day. What he was _not_ used to was the new habit Connor had developed, of disappearing for hours on end without explanation.

Murphy didn't approve of Connor's recurring vanishing act. Not at all.

The elder MacManus remained unconcerned, saying that whatever Connor was up to was his own business, and that if he wanted to tell them, he would do so in his own good time. But Murphy couldn't adopt his da's complacency. From the time Murphy was 17 until not many months ago, Connor had been the only family he'd had. Even when the boys still lived with their family in Ireland, he'd always been closest to his twin. They'd always had each others' backs, confided in each other. Until now, they had never kept anything from each other.

But now Connor was up to something. He had a secret, something he refused to share with his twin.

Murphy didn't like it one bit.

It had all started two months ago, on July 19. Connor and Murphy had gone to McGinty's to celebrate another successful assassination. Coincidentally, it was also the anniversary of the day they left Ireland- a day both twins viewed with mixed delight and sorrow. They'd been industriously guzzling their whiskey, sometimes singing rowdy drinking songs, sometimes quietly sharing memories of the people and places they'd left behind. At about 2 AM, Connor had left his brother, saying he fancied a walk along the Boston Harbor. Murphy had gone home alone and gone to bed, expecting to find his brother there when he woke up.

Connor hadn't returned until 3 o'clock the next afternoon, and then only to shower and change before heading out again. He'd kept that up all weekend, and not a single word what he was up to; matter of fact, Connor had hardly spoken to his brother or da at all.

Murphy would have been content to write it off as Connor attending a convention for rope lovers. But several times in the ensuing two months, Connor had pulled this disappearing act again. And every time his brother vanished, Murphy's irritation grew. It wasn't possible for anyone to love rope that much. Not even Connor. There had to be another explanation.

What could Connor be thinking, hieing off by himself? They had made plenty of enemies as the Saints of South Boston; what if Connor got himself captured, or worse, killed?

Or what if he was executing justice on his own? Murphy wouldn't allow that; the Saints worked as a team or not at all. Besides, he didn't want to miss any shootings.

Murphy hated being left out. Anytime he didn't know something he wanted to, his curiosity drove him insane until he learned it. He badly wanted to know what Connor was up to. Plus, though he'd never admit it out loud, he missed his brother. He missed their pointless bickering, Connor's comforting, solid presence, his constant mockery. Lately, even if Connor was around, he seemed lost in his own world, and barely noticed anyone else's presence. Murphy liked that least of all.

There was only one thing to be done. The next time Connor went out, Murphy would simply have to follow him.

Once his plan of action was decided upon, all he had to do was wait.

Murphy was horrible at waiting.

Fortunately, though, Connor arrived before Murphy lost his mind with waiting- about two hours after he decided upon his plan. Murphy conspicuously buried himself in the _Boston Irish Reporter_, his senses tuned to the sounds of his brother showering and dressing. Without saying a word to Murphy or going for any of the guns stashed around the apartment [which Murphy took as a very good sign], Connor walked out of the flat. Tossing down the paper, Murphy grinned, grabbed his peacoat, and followed his twin.

He made sure to keep enough distance between them so that Connor wouldn't get suspicious, while staying close enough that it was easy to tail him. As far as Murphy could tell, Connor was headed towards McGinty's. Once he'd ascertained that, Murphy relaxed, allowing himself to enjoy the beautiful twilight that settled over South Boston like a benediction. Murphy lit himself a cigarette, smiling to himself when he saw Connor do the same. They had always been prone to synchronicity…

He waited on the corner, giving Connor a good ten minutes [and three cigarettes] before approaching the bar. Praying to high Heaven that he wouldn't be spotted, Murphy walked to the bar and peered in the window.

The bar was full, of course. Through the crush of people and smoke and dimmed lights, Murphy spotted Connor on a barstool, a cold glass of Guiness in his left hand. There was an open, charming, happy smile on his face, the likes of which Murphy hadn't seen in the past decade. That wasn't the face Connor wore when he was hunting for girls… but he was most definitely not alone.

She was petite, leggy, and fair, just Connor's type. Her softly curling hair, blond with just the faintest tint of red, fell past her shoulders and obscured her profile, but Murphy had no doubt that hers would be a lovely face. She was dressed in a black skirt that hit her mid-thigh, knee-high black stilleto boots, and a crimson halter top. Even from where he stood, Murphy could see the Celtic cross tattooed on the inside of her right forearm.

Murphy made a face at his reflection in the window in disgust. All his worry and agitation over Connor, and his brother had gone to chase a skirt, as if he were still 16 and had to sneak out of the house. Equally determined to take the mickey out of his brother for finally getting laid, and to never let his da learn that he'd been spying on his brother, Murphy turned and walked away, leaving Connor to his fun.

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Veritas

It had been two months, and Connor MacManus still couldn't believe his luck. He was absolutely positive that the woman sitting with him at the bar was God's gift to him, a reward for faithful service. Their meeting had been so serendipitous that it simply had to have been willed by the Almighty. What else could explain the fact that they'd been reunited the very night that he'd been pining for her the most?

Two months ago, Connor and his brother Murphy had gone to McGinty's. That in itself was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary; the boys frequented the bar whenever they had any sort of money at all. They had gone to celebrate being alive after another killing, but that too was becoming more common. The more important, and unusual, celebration was the anniversary of their leaving Ireland. The twins had begun their night by fondly toasting their homeland, and their family and friends who lived there still.

The more he drank, however, the more melancholy Connor found himself becoming. Eventually, he hadn't been able to take the company of rowdy drunks anymore. He left the bar and headed for Boston Harbor, pretending to himself that he was walking along the River Suir back home. He closed his eyes, imagining his Geal Súil sitting pretzel-style on the riverbank, skipping stones across the water while whistling a merry tune.

He'd stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a figure seated pretzel-style along the harbor, whistling softly just as he'd been imagining. Connor had blinked rapidly, assuming the phantom would vanish before his drunken eyes. But no matter how much he blinked, the figure remained. Connor narrowed his eyes, determined to free himself from this mirage which was only making his melancholy worse. So he'd chosen to shatter the illusion in the best way he knew how- to call it by the name he knew it wouldn't answer to.

"Niamh?" he croaked.

The figure turned its head, and Connor had known instantly that this was no drunken hallucination. His memory had failed him, he decided in the space of a heartbeat; he hadn't been able to accurately capture her delicate elfin loveliness in his thoughts. Ten years had passed, but she barely looked older than she had the last time he'd seen her when they were 17.

The woman kept his gaze, an amused twinkle in her eye. "Jaysus, Manny, how much 'ave ye had ta drink?"

It was the sound of her high, clear voice, the use of his nickname- the name that only she had used- that convinced Connor that this was no dream. What Niamh was doing in Boston, he had no idea, but he didn't care. All that mattered was that he was seeing his best friend again.

With a wild whoop, Connor ran towards her. Niamh rose with a laugh, flinging her arms around his shoulders as he lifted her off her feet and spun her around- no hard feat, as she was only 5'2" without her heels and no more than 110 lbs.

"Jaysus fuckin' Christ!" he exclaimed. "What the fuck're ye doin' here, Bright Eyes?"  
Niamh laughed, her green eyes twinkling at her old nickname. "Lord's fuckin' name, Connor," she teasingly admonished him, sounding uncannily like his ma. "I'm here on business."  
"Fuck, I can't believe it!" Connor said, running a hand through his blond hair and staring at her. "Fuckin' hell, I've missed ya."  
Niamh laughed again. "I've missed yeh too."

Being the gentleman he was, Connor had naturally suggested that they celebrate their reunion at the pub. They drank and reminisced and laughed and drank some more until the sun was rising and they were broke. Plastered and punch-drunk, they went to Niamh's hotel room and passed out- exactly as they'd done as teenagers.

After that night, Connor and Niamh got together every time she was in Boston. They didn't always drink, but they always reminisced, and they always had a good time, just as they had always done.

Every time Connor came back from seeing Niamh, all he wanted was to see her again. Until he'd seen her, he hadn't known just how much he had missed her. When they were younger, life had been brighter, lighter, and happier for him when he was with her. She was his sunshine, his air, always had been. He thanked God every day that He'd seen fit to bring Niamh back into Connor's life.

Connor blinked when fingers snapped in his face, and refocused to see Niamh laughing at him.

"Am I borin' ye that badly?" she grinned.  
"Sorry, love," he said sheepishly. "Me mind ran away wit' me again."  
"The beer affects ya more in yer old age," Niamh nodded.  
"Aye, tha' must be it," Connor laughed.

Had it been Murphy calling him old, Connor would have protested and started a fight as a rule. But it was Niamh teasing him, and she was smiling, and Connor would do anything for another of his best friend's glorious smiles.

"I'm surprised at ye, Connor MacManus," she said some time later, taking a long sip of her Guinness.  
"Oh? Why's tha', Niamh MacCoy?" Connor asked, copying her actions.  
"Two months we've been meetin', and yeh've still not asked me the crucial question," Niamh said.  
"And what would the crucial question be, love?" Connor asked.  
A stony look crossed Niamh's face before she chased it away with a faint smile. "The one Murphy sent yeh ta find out. How me sister is."  
An outraged expression settled on Connor's face. "Yeh think I'm only here t' ask after yer sister? Fuck no! Yeh're me best fuckin' friend, Niamh. I'm here for you, not ta be Murphy's fuckin' messenger boy."  
"Don't fly off the handle at me," Niamh returned, visibly relaxing now that she knew Connor wasn't here on Murphy's business. "I saw 'is face in the window, is all. I thought 'e was gettin' yeh to pump me fer information."  
"And I'll tell 'im the truth," Connor grumbled, angry at the revelation that his brother had been spying on him. "That she's still in Ireland, married to me brother Éamonn, with two pretty babies on 'er knee, and as happy as can be."  
"Bite your tongue, that's awful," Niamh laughed. "Yeh'd do better ta say it's Darragh."

Connor and Niamh shared a conspiratorial chuckle, though Connor noticed that Niamh's was forced, each imagining the explosion of Murphy's rage if Connor told him that Éamonn or Darragh had made a move on Niamh's sister.

"But in all seriousness, yer right," Connor said. "I 'ave been remiss in me duties. How are yer sisters?"

Niamh promptly launched into all the news of her sisters, relaying all the highlights of the past decade that Connor had missed. From the avalanche of information that she supplied, Connor gathered that Niamh's parents Aileen and Pádriac, and her sisters Róisín, Gráinne, Fióna, Líadan, and Aoife, were all doing well. Connor tried to prod Niamh for information about the sister Niamh hadn't mentioned, but Niamh shut that avenue off so quickly that Connor knew she didn't want him passing information about Devin on. It was then Connor's turn to share everything he knew about his mother Annabelle, uncle Sibeal, and his brothers Reagan, Darragh, Jacob, Pádriac, Éamonn, and Murphy that Niamh might have missed in the three years since she left Ireland.

From there, talk turned back to Niamh and Connor. Any time Murphy's name came up, Connor noticed that Niamh would tense up, and subtly re-direct the conversation. He wasn't sure what the reason was for the underlying tension, but he was determined to find out, because he knew that sometime soon, he would have to tell his twin that their childhood friend had crossed their path again, and she was sure to bring her sister with her.

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**Name Meanings** (all names in this chapter except for Annabelle, Sibeal and Jacob come from behindthename . com; I got Annabelle, Sibeal and Jacob from imdb, and Con and Murph obviously come from the movies)  
Murphy: from a surname meaning 'descendent of Murchadh' (Murchadh means 'sea warrior')  
Connor: 'dog lover' or 'wolf lover'  
Niamh: 'bright' (NEE-av)

**Guide to Gaelic** (tranlsation comes from irishgaelictranslator . com)  
Geal Súil: 'bright eye'

**Note About Geography**: I chose the town I've decided the MacManuses and MacCoys are from based on one factor- Connor and Niamh demanded that they have a special place by a river. So their hometown is located in South Tipperary County, by the River Suir. You can google or wiki it.

**Additional Information**: I googled a list of Boston newspapers to find the _Boston Irish Reporter_ [see how dedicated to accuracy I am?]. Niamh's play-by is Hayden Panettiere with red-gold hair.

**About Posting**: I've decided that I'm going to post one chapter of this story for every chapter of the _Darkness_ sequel I get written. Meaning posts are likely to be erratic, but I should be posting once every two weeks at the very worst.


	2. Truth and Lies

**Author's Note**: This chapter is a good example of how the MacCoy twins loved to fuck with my plans. Originally, Niamh wasn't going to hate Murphy; they were supposed to be really good friends. But then Devin [who incidentally is the character who possessed me to write this story in the first place] revealed this little secret to me, and when I asked Niamh about it she went off on a bitter, bitter rant [that gave me a headache and my plot bunnies Viagra]. So I had to go back and change quite a few details to make that plot twist make sense. When you read about what Niamh did at the end of this chapter, please don't hate her [too much]; she has her reasons, which I'll explain.

**Disclaimer**: This is a minor point, but I'm going to cover my ass just in case. It's come to my attention that the middle name I picked for Connor is also used in another story here on ffn- _Bean an Gcroîthe_, by Aoife129. Though I find her story [and everything else she's written] incredible, I promise I didn't steal Connor's middle name from her. I could give you a whole rationalization for why I chose Connor's name [and Murphy's, and everyone else's], but I don't think you're that interested. Instead, just read this chapter [and check out Aoife129's stuff!].

**Special Thanks**: Thanks to my beta George for helping me decide where to end this chapter. He was also the one that more or less decided Murphy's relationship history for me, so if you find it unrealistic or overly romantic, take it up with him. He also helped me pick Devin's play-by. Many thanks, Blanco!

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Veritas

Connor padded out of his room late in the afternoon and opened the fridge in search of something to eat. Fortunately, the senior MacManus had gone out for food sometime in the last two days, and there was plenty of edible, non-perished food to choose from. Connor grabbed a carton of Chinese food and a beer, then walked into the living room, where Murphy was laying on the couch, staring blankly at the TV.

"Mornin'," Connor mumbled before digging in to his food.  
"It's afternoon, idiot," Murphy replied without looking away from the TV, his voice lacking its normal mocking tone.  
"I jus' woke up. So it's mornin'," Connor answered. "Are we goin' out tonight, then?"

Murphy didn't reply; in fact, he made no sign that he had even heard his twin.

"Murph?" Connor tried again. "I hear there's a new waitress at McGinty's, we should go introduce ourselves."

Still no reply. Connor raised his eyebrows.

"Murphy!"

Still nothing. Connor rolled his eyes in complete and utter exasperation. He loved his twin, he really did [though it would take an act of God to ever get him to admit it out loud], but sometimes Murphy's moods were bad enough to try the patience of all the saints in Heaven.

_Calm_, he admonished himself. _Stay calm_. He was on a mission, and he'd be damned if he failed.

"Jaysus, Murphy, will ye stop fuckin' ignorin' me fer two fuckin' seconds?" he exclaimed.

So much for staying calm…

"Oh, stop ignorin' yeh," Murphy shot back, getting up for another beer. "Jus' like you've been not-ignorin' me for the las' two months?"  
Connor sighed. "I've not been ignorin' ye! I've been busy, is all. Christ, stop bitchin' like a fuckin' woman."  
"Oh, I know," Murphy grumbled. "Yeh've been real busy chasin' skirts all over town."  
Connor couldn't help himself; he rolled his eyes again. "Ya sound like I've abandoned ye. Which makes ye sound like a fag. Yeh know what? Ferget I said anythin' about McGinty's. The skirt'd be better company than yeh today."

Connor turned on his heel and went into his own room with his food, kicking the door shut behind him. It was days like this that he really appreciated moving out of the warehouse loft and into this place; he had somewhere where he could get away from his twin when Murphy was brooding. Connor threw himself onto his bed, muttering incoherently. That had not gone well.

Niamh would be back in town again tonight, and Connor knew that Murphy would love a chance to see her. Their tempers had often clashed when they were all growing up in Ireland, but when they weren't furious at each other, they'd been great friends. Connor wanted them to reunite at McGinty's tonight, but with the mood Murphy was in, it didn't look like that was gonna happen.

A few hours and a phone call to Niamh later, Connor walked back to the living room to try again. He found Murphy on the couch still, his eyes still blankly fixed on the TV. The fact that he was silent and still was worrisome enough; the fact that the TV station was on QVC nearly had Connor in a panic. Something was wrong with Murphy, and Connor was determined to find out what it was.

He sat in the armchair, glancing warily at the TV. QVC was selling Irish jewelry in September, of all the random things under the blessed sun. The presenter was going on and on about claddaghs- ah. Connor leaned back in his armchair as the puzzle pieces came together and his twin's bad mood began to make sense. And Connor began to feel guilty for how short he'd been earlier.

"I'm sorry, Murph," he said, quietly but sincerely. "I'd forgotten what day it was."

Murphy nodded silently, clenching and unclenching his left hand. Connor watched him, tuning into the misery and hopelessness his brother radiated.

He spoke slowly, unsure how his brother would react. "I miss 'er too. The lot of 'em."  
"I can't get 'er out o' me head today," Murphy mumbled. "I can't stop wonderin' what she's up to."  
Connor hid a smile; he'd been hoping for that response. "Well, I can't answer that, but… Niamh's in the States." Murphy's head shot up, and Connor nodded. "Aye, tha's who I've been meetin' fer the last two months. She's comin' down from Brooklyn again tonight. Come to the pub with us, she'll talk yer fuckin' ear off about all the girls."

Murphy hesitated, but nodded. Connor smiled.

"That's me boy. We'll head to McGinty's around 10."

As Connor went to shower and change, he found himself thinking about Murphy's mood- and, more importantly, the cause of the mood.

It occurred to him that if they'd stayed in Ireland, Murphy's gold claddagh ring would be facing the opposite direction. He and his childhood sweetheart had promised their parents when they gave each other their claddaghs at age 17 that they wouldn't marry until they were at least 21. The boys had left only six months later, and Murphy had never heard from her again.

It had been ten years. But the claddagh had never left Murphy's left hand, and he hadn't been with a woman since. Connor could only guess at the amount of self-control it had to take his naturally flirtatious brother to remain faithful to a woman he might very well never see again. He had once asked Murphy how he did it; Lord knew Connor hadn't been celibate for the past decade, and he had no one waiting for him at home. How did Murphy control himself?

"I promised God once, I'd do anythin' He asked of me, if He'd jus' let me see 'er again," Murphy had replied. "I promised Him that I'd never even look at another woman, if I could talk to her jus' once more. An' it's not so hard ta keep a promise like that. No other woman matters to me, coz they're not _her_."

Most days in the last decade had passed without any mention of the woman Murphy called Mo Chroí; most days he was his normal, enthusiastic, twitchy self. But there were the rare days, days like today, when for whatever reason the floodgates would open, and Murphy would reveal just how badly leaving her had hurt him, and how badly he hurt still.

Nothing hurt Connor more than seeing his brother in pain, whether physical or emotional. Whenever Murphy was hurt, it was Connor's job to fix it. End of story. And no matter how exasperated Murphy made him, Connor would be damned if he failed when his twin really needed him.

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Parilitas

Niamh MacCoy looked around McGuinness Irish Gift Shop contentedly. McGuinness was praised as one of the best gift shops in New York City, and for good reason. Unlike some other specialty stores, every bit of McGuinness merchandise came from Ireland. The store sold more than the typical shot glasses and "Kiss Me Irish Arse" t-shirts; you could find reproduction Celtic jewelry, furniture, books, and knick-knacks for any budget. If she closed her eyes and focused on the Uilleann pipe music softly playing, she could almost make herself believe that she was home again, for one of the many town parties.

Niamh opened her eyes and shook her head to clear it of memories of Carrick-On-Suir, then checked her watch for the millionth time that day. The excited butterflies kicked up in her stomach when she saw it was 6 o'clock, and thus the end of her shift. She walked back to the office, where a good-looking man in his mid-30s was on the computer, using some software program to balance the accounts.

"Liam, would ye mind terribly much if I ducked out before Aidan got here?" she chirped in her light, airy voice. "Our ma'll kill us if we're not in Boston before six in the mornin'."  
"Ay, Niamh, go ahead," Liam smiled. "It's only a few minutes till Aidan gets here, and yeh've a long trip to the pub. Tell yer ma I send me greetings."  
"As always," Niamh smiled. "I'll see yeh Monday."

Niamh headed for the door, wrapping her white trench coat over her white, floral-patterned sundress and belting it around her tiny waist before stepping into the slight chill of the September evening. She smiled to herself as she headed for the bus stop on Avenue U; she loved Brooklyn in the fall.

After taking the B3 bus to 86th street, and the B1 bus to 82nd- a trip that took about 52 minutes on a good day- Niamh made it to Peggy O'Neill's Pub. She pushed open the door, standing on her tiptoes in an attempt to see through the crowd. Despite her strappy sandal heels, she was having trouble seeing over the heads of the bar patrons. Even though her sister wasn't working tonight, Niamh knew she'd be in the pub anyway, most likely sitting on the bar counter, or lending a hand if the bartender was really busy.

Niamh ducked outside quickly, flipping open her phone and punching in the number she denied to herself that she had memorized.

"'Ello?" came an exasperated voice.  
One corner of Niamh's voice rose in a smile. "Hey, Manny."  
"Hey, Bright Eyes," Connor replied, his voice lightening.  
"I'm at the pub to pick up Trioblóid, and we'll be in Boston in a few hours," Niamh said.  
"Niamh, it takes eight hours ta get to Boston from Brooklyn," Connor protested.  
Niamh shrugged. "I'll speed."  
Connor laughed. "I'd almost forgotten how ya love goin' as fast as possible. Look, I'm doin' what I can to bring Murphy along, but 'e's been actin' like a first-rate pissant all day."  
Niamh tensed. "Maybe ye shouldn't bring 'im."  
"Why not?" Connor asked.  
"Because I haven't told 'er that I've been seein' ya," she replied. "She has no idea that you boys're in Boston. She thinks we're jus' comin' down for another o' my work weekends."  
"Then it'll be a nice surprise for 'er," Connor said. "Look, give us a call when you're in town, will yeh, love? I gotta go, sounds like Murphy burned supper."

Connor had hung up before Niamh had a chance to protest his decision to bring Murphy to McGinty's. She stared down at her phone, biting her lip and wondering if she shouldn't just cancel this trip. She knew what her sister's reaction would be if she saw the MacManus brothers, and she didn't want her twin to have to go through that. It was the reason she hadn't told her sister that she had reconnected with Connor. She'd thought it was for the best, but now she wondered if she had taken the right course of action. Sending a silent prayer up to the Lord above that tonight wouldn't be a diaster of epic proportions, she took a deep breath and re-entered the pub.

"Devin!" she called as she reached the counter.

From where she still sat perched on the bar counter, Devin MacCoy looked up at the sound of her twin's voice. Though she normally hated anything that wasn't jeans and a plain top, today Devin was garbed in a black, embroidered dress that had once been an Irish stepping dress and was now serving as a long-sleeved sundress. Her shoulder-length, choppy layered, dark brown hair was pulled back with a clip, but strands still fell in her pale face and emerald eyes. And, to Niamh's eternal chagrin, Devin was wearing black flats. Someday, Niamh vowed anew, she would get her twin to appreciate the glory of heels…

When she made it to the bar, Devin gave Niamh her patented half-smile, half-smirk. "Hóigh, Draoidín!" she said cheekily.  
Niamh drew herself to her full height of 5'5" with her heels on, and glared. "I'm not short."  
Devin jumped off the bar gracefully, towering over her twin. "Yer 5'2". I'm 5'8". Yer short."  
"Girls, if yer gonna start fightin' over height, neither o' you will get a single drop to drink!" the bartender, Sean, threatened.  
"Tha's alright, Sean, we're leavin' anyways," Niamh said.  
"Another weekend in Boston?" one of the patrons asked.  
"Aye," Niamh nodded. "Friends o' ours invited us fer a baptism on Sunday. We're leavin' as soon as I get Trioblóid outta here."

Devin nodded and headed for the door, surprisingly docile for her. She reached for her coat, shaking her left arm to loosen her wooden rosary bracelet, identical to Niamh's. She slid on the ancient, threadbare wool peacoat that was slightly too big for her, then walked out the door.

The twins walked the few short blocks to their apartment silently, then got into the ancient blue four-door sedan that Niamh had packed the night before. Both sisters were quiet as Niamh began driving; it wasn't until she turned onto the I-278 W that Devin turned in her seat and broke the silence.

"What're we doin' in Boston this time?" she asked.  
"Nothin' work-related," Niamh said. "We're takin' a weekend off ta go ta McGinty's."

Devin raised her eyebrows in surprise, but seemingly accepted her sister's explanation, and sat back in her seat. As she drove, Niamh kept an eye on her sister. Devin had fallen into a brooding melancholy with which Niamh was all too familiar, but which nevertheless hurt her heart every time she saw it. For a time, Niamh merely kept watch over Devin, knowing the source of her sister's mood the second Devin started playing with the gold ring on her hand.

"I've been thinkin', Devin," Niamh said delicately. "I mean, it's been a long time now since he died. Maybe ye should put yer mind to forgettin' him, try ta move on."  
"No," Devin said quietly, shaking her head. "I'll never be able ta forget 'im. I've tried to, God above knows how I've tried. But I can't. I'll never love again, Niamh."  
"It's a lonely life yeh'll lead," Niamh observed.  
"I'd be lonely if I found another, too," Devin returned. "I'd be lonely wit' anyone that wasn't 'im."

Niamh wisely dropped the topic, but every mile that brought them closer to Boston made her more and more apprehensive, and more and more afraid of what was likely to happen when they got to McGinty's. Lord above, this was going to be a disaster…

It normally took eight hours to drive from Brooklyn to Boston. But Niamh knew plenty of shortcuts, and she always drove the car as fast as it would go. They made it to Boston in three hours. They parked the car in the church parking lot, and took off on foot for the bar. The closer they came to McGinty's, the more Devin's mood seemed to improve- which Niamh knew from long and bitter experience meant that Devin was merely repressing her true emotions and putting on the mask she'd so painstakingly crafted over the years. It was a good mask, and could fool anyone- everyone except Niamh.

When she saw the good-for-nothing bastard who'd done this to Devin, she was going to give him a piece of her mind. And she hoped he choked on it.

McGinty's was crowded, as usual. Niamh and Devin made their way up to the bar after hanging up their coats, greeting the familiars they'd come to know in the past three years they'd been coming to the bar.

"Batten down the hatches, boyos, it's the MacCoy girls come back ta town!" crowed Clare, the bartender.  
"Good ta see ye too, Clare," Niamh grinned, sitting on the barstool and arranging the skirt of her sundress around her.  
"Where's Doc?" Devin asked, sitting on Niamh's left side.  
"He's fixin' ta retire and let me take over," Clare replied, setting two glasses of Guinness before the girls.  
"We'll have ta come down more often, then," Niamh said, raising her glass. "Sláinte."

Niamh smiled as she heard the music playing. She drank round after round of Guinness as she and her twin socialized with the bar patrons and with Clare. When Devin was on her eighth Guinness, Niamh hopped off her barstool.

"Come 'ave a dance wi' me, Devin," she pleaded.  
At the mention of dancing, some of Devin's affected cheer died. "Not yet, Niamh. I've not had enough to drink."  
"Don' yeh dare start tha'," Niamh threatened. "Every time I ask fer a dance, yeh refuse me. Up till yer eighth beer yeh tell me yeh've not had enough ta drink. When yeh've had nine ye tell me yeh've 'ad too much. So eight beers must be the magic number. Now get off yer arse and come dance."  
"I refuse yeh coz I know what dance yeh'd have us do," Devin retorted. "And tha' dance can't be done without a coupla good Carrick boys."  
Niamh sighed, taking her sister's hand. "Please, Devin," she begged softly. "I've not seen yeh dance in ten years. Tonight of all nights, ye should dance for love of 'im. Dance to remember 'im."

Devin looked up at Niamh, unable to talk through the lump in her throat. Finally, she nodded.

"There's a good lass," Niamh said, pulling her sister to her feet.

**

* * *

**

Aequitas

Murphy walked beside Connor quietly, doing his damndest to empty his mind of all thoughts. Especially thoughts of his one-time bride-to-be.

He paid no attention to Connor, who kept getting calls- from Niamh, most likely. Though happy that Connor had gotten back in touch with his best friend, Murphy wasn't sure he wanted to see her. Not that he didn't like her; Niamh had always been like a sister to him- a very annoying, overly opinionated and too damn stubborn for her own good sister, but a sister nonetheless. But seeing her was sure to make him bitter that Connor had what Murphy wanted- a reconnection with the most important woman in his life other than his ma. And seeing Niamh was sure to bring up painful memories, memories he wasn't sure he was strong enough to face tonight.

"Murph, do us a favor and take a peek t'rough the window," Connor said.

Murphy blinked, wondering when they'd gotten to McGinty's and how long they'd been standing outside. Shaking his head slightly, he walked up to the window and looked inside, his heart giving an unwelcome lurch when he heard _Blood of Cuchulainn_ playing. Once upon a time he, Connor, and the MacCoy twins had won step competitions with a routine they'd danced to this song. They'd been about to take the dance to the national competition when the boys had left Ireland.

The bar floor had been cleared, and there were two girls beginning a dance. One was petite and strawberry blond, the other a statuesque brunette. Her dark brown shag covered her face, but Murphy only needed to see the steps of the dance to know who the girls were… and for a decade's worth of joy and pain to overwhelm him.

"Devin," he whispered, staring at his one-time fiancée as if he'd seen a ghost.

**

* * *

**

Omnis

Hardly aware that he was moving, Murphy strode into the bar, the steps to the dance returning to him as if he'd only done it yesterday.

"Oh Christ," Connor muttered. "Saints above preserve us."

Nevertheless, a smile grew on his face as he followed his twin inside. He walked past Murphy and headed straight to Niamh; this light, airy section of the music had been theirs to dance to. He took Niamh's hands and began stepping with her, his feet remembering what his head had forgotten.

"Evenin', love," he grinned as they danced around each other.  
"Perfect timin', Manny," Niamh returned.

Devin's back was to the scene on the floor as she explained the dance to the bar patrons. "It's a dance about the Lady o' Light and her White Knight, fightin' against the Queen o' the Night and the Shadow Warrior. This was Niamh's part. She and Connor would dance about like a coupla faeries. 'Twas pretty ta watch."

Niamh and Connor stepped back as Devin took the floor. Devin was clearly a better dancer than her sister; there was a grace and a charisma in her movements that Niamh lacked.

"And then 'twas Devin's turn," Niamh took up the tale. "All flyin' hair and skirts. She'll lay a spell on ye with her dancin', she will. See how focused she is? As if her Murphy were still here, dancin' with 'er."

Devin closed her eyes as she expertly stepped and twirled. Her heart ached and her eyes smarted as a wave of pain flooded over her, as she remembered the one she'd loved and had lost.

Then there was no need to imagine her partner behind her, for there were hands holding hers, and someone was standing behind her, expertly mirroring her movements. She could feel a ring on his left hand, and she smelled the comforting, familiar scents of Guinness, cigarettes, and something that was uniquely his.

She refused to open her eyes and break the spell. It would hurt her more in the long run, but for now she needed to imagine that Murphy was still alive, that he was here with her. Though she didn't open her eyes, a new vigor came into her dancing, and for that moment- if only for that moment- she was the 17-year-old Devin that had died the day she'd lost Murphy.

The song ended, as all things must. Finally, Devin forced her eyes to open… and then she stared.

"Murphy," she whispered.

She had to be seeing a ghost, for there he was, all pale skin and earnest blue eyes and crooked smiles, his claddagh on his left hand and the Aequitas tattoo on his right. She stared at him for a moment, chest heaving, before she turned to bar, where Clare had four glasses of Guinness waiting.

"Clare, me love, yeh'd best cut me off after this pint," Devin croaked, snatching a glass and taking a deep draught, as if trying to drink away the apparition. "Me Guinness-bleary eyes coulda sworn I was dancin' wit' the MacManus twins. But tha's impossible," she said, fixing Niamh with a stony gaze that her twin couldn't quite return.  
"How's that, Devin?" Clare asked, laughing.  
"The MacManus boys've been dead these ten years," Devin replied through clenched teeth.

Connor and Murphy froze in shock, shooting astonished glances at an increasingly guilty-looking Niamh. The bar quieted down, watching the unfolding drama, while Devin forced herself to keep speaking.

"They disappeared from County Tipperary when we were but seventeen, leavin' naught but this necklace and this ring behind," she said, motioning to Niamh's silver Celtic cross necklace and the gold claddagh ring on her own left hand. "We searched for 'em, we did," she continued, forcing the words around the lump growing in her throat. "And when we'd searched the length and breadth of Ireland, we searched the East Coast. But they were gone- without a word, without a trace. Then one day, Niamh came to me an' told me that they were dead."

Devin turned from Niamh, who was staring into her lap, and raised aloft her beer, looking at the bar patrons who were enthralled in the train wreck that was Devin's impending emotional meltdown.

"So raise your glasses with me, lads," Devin said fiercely, desperately fighting a losing battle against her tears. "God rest Connor Fearghal, the air that flowed in me twin's lungs," she said, pouring a libation on the floor. "And God rest Murphy Diarmuid, the blood that pumped in me 'eart," she finished, pouring a second libation.

The crack in Devin's voice was all that was needed to break the spell that had rendered Murphy frozen. He broke free of his shock, strode forward, and crashed his lips on hers, wrapping his arms around her. Devin dropped the remains of her Guinness in shock, but was soon kissing back with just as much passion. Only the cheering and jokes of the bar patrons jerked Devin back to reality. She pulled away from Murphy, stared at him for a second… and then turned and ran.

"Devin!" Murphy called, making to go after her.  
"You leave 'er the fuck alone, Murphy MacManus," Niamh spat.  
Murphy turned, incredulous. "You told 'er that I was dead?!"  
Niamh glared at Murphy, stalking over to him. "Ye left 'er. Ye broke 'er heart. She values fidelity above all things, and ye broke 'er trust in yeh. It was better for 'er to think ye dead than fer her to know the truth- that ye never loved 'er."

Murphy had never in his life raised his hand to a woman [well, except for that lesbian in the meat plant, but she'd deserved it], but suddenly he felt that if he didn't get out of the bar that instant, he would draw his suppressed Beretta 92f pistol and shoot Niamh through the forehead. Shooting her a glare filled with the utmost loathing, he turned on his heel and stormed out of McGinty's, determined to fix what Niamh had broken.

* * *

**Name Meanings** [all names from behindthename . com]

Devin: from an Anglicized surname- O Dubhain [Dubhan means 'little black one'] [DAY-vin]  
Fearghal: 'man of valour' [FER-gal]  
Diarmuid: 'without envy' [DEER-mid]

**Guide to Foreign Languages** [tranlsations from freelang . net and tranexp . com]

Mo Chroí: 'my heart'  
Trioblóid: 'trouble'  
Hóigh: 'hello'  
Draoidín: 'shrimp'  
Parilitas: 'justice' [I know that Murphy's tattoo Aequitas is often translated as 'justice', but for the purposes of my story, his means 'equality']  
Omnis: 'all'

**Note About Music**: _Blood of Cuchulainn_ was written by Mycheal Danna, and it's the theme song for _The Boondock Saints_. I stuck the reference to the song in purely for my own amusement.

When I was working out the plot for this story, I chose four songs to serve as the defining song for each character. A lot of the time, I would listen to these songs [all can be found on youtube] when writing each character's POV.

Murphy: _Blood of Cuchulainn_, by Mychael Danna  
Connor: _Caoineadh Cu Chulainn_, by Davy Spillane [there's another version by Brian O'Brien]  
Niamh: _The Child Dierdre_, by Mychael Danna  
Devin: _Iona_, by Mychael Danna

**Note About Geography**: I used Google maps to figure out how to get from McGuinness Irish Gift Shop [where Niamh works] to Peggy O'Neill Pub [where Devin works], and to figure out how long it takes to get from Brooklyn to Boston. Yes, McGuinness and Peggy O'Neill are both real places. Yes, Niamh's bus route is a real one. Yes, I took the literary license to let Niamh drive to Boston in 3 hours instead of 8.

**Additional Notes**: I realize that Niamh has given 3 conflicting stories for her trips to Boston. There's a reason why Niamh keeps changing her story, I promise.

Also, please forgive me for my shite description of Irish step dancing. I know absolutely nothing about it, so I just made it all up.

Devin's play-by is Mila Kunis.


	3. What I've Done

**Author's Note**: I had an incredible amount of fun with this chapter- especially with Devin's POV. Though I knew that the overall tone of this story would be rather bleak, I've looked forward to writing the scene between Devin and Murphy ever since I came up with the idea. But the chapter ended up being even more fun to write than I had anticipated, thanks entirely to Niamh opening her big mouth and ruining things for herself [she has a tendancy to do that, and I find it hilarious]. Enjoy the sweetness and the train crash!

Also, seeing as part of Devin and Murphy's conversation involves them speaking in tongues to each other, I decided to immediately put the translation in italics between their sentences. I hope it doesn't break the narrative up too badly, but I wanted you to be able to follow their conversation.

**Disclaimer**: See the end of the chapter for my disclaimer.

**Special Thanks**: Thanks to those who have already put this story on their Story Alerts list, words can't express how much I appreciate it!

**

* * *

**

Fidelis

Devin MacCoy sprinted through the streets of South Boston, streets she knew almost as well as those of Brooklyn. It was a good thing she was so familiar with her surroundings, because her eyes were so filled with tears that she could barely see. When she made it to the Harborwalk, she threw herself on the ground and let her tears, and her emotions, overtake her.

For a time, all there was were tears. Tears of grief, of shock, of anger, of catharsis. It took long moments for thoughts to catch up to emotions, but when they did it was in such a rush that Devin found herself wishing for the mind-numbing sobs.

_Alive. Alive alive alive_, her mind screamed at her. _Murphy was alive_.

She could barely process the fact. Ten years of mourning, of ceaseless prayers for his soul's peace… ten years of putting her life back together and learning to face a future without him… overturned in an instant.

She would think she'd finally gone crazy, that her mind had snapped because of her grief. But she knew she couldn't have imagined the warmth of Murphy's calloused hands, the aching blue of his eyes, his undefinable scent. It hadn't been a ghost she'd danced with, and it hadn't been a fantasy. Murphy had been there. He was alive.

And Niamh had known.

A tidal wave of betrayal came crashing over Devin's head. Niamh had known that the love of Devin's life was alive. She had potentially known it all along. And she had lied about it.

What in the world could have possessed Niamh to betray Devin as she had? What gave her the right? Niamh had had the comfort of knowing that the MacManus twins were alive and well somewhere in the world. Why had she denied Devin the same solace?

There would have to be a reckoning between the MacCoy sisters. And there would be, Devin determined. Just as soon as she figured out how to put her life back together.

"Devin!"

Niamh could wait.

Devin turned slowly, steeling herself for the shock she knew would come regardless as soon as she focused on Murphy. Sure enough, the moment she saw him her mouth went dry, the butterflies in her stomach awoke en masse, and her heart nearly broke through her chest. How was it that he could still do this to her, after ten years of not seeing each other and her thinking him dead?

He slowed as he approached her, and Devin was suddenly conscious that she had been laying on the grass and sobbing. She had to look a fright… She scrambled to her feet on shaky legs, hurriedly wiping her face clean. She drew a jagged breath or two, staring at him as he stared at her.

"Yer alive," she whispered.

She wasn't conscious of moving, but suddenly she had collapsed in his arms, and she was crying, and they were kissing again, and suddenly it didn't hurt anymore.

"Mo chuisle, mo chroí, mo shaol, m'anam," he breathed, nearly babbling, his voice choked with tears.

_My pulse, my heart, my life, my soul._

"Devin, моя тайна, mein stern, mi querido."

_My secret, my star, my beloved._

"Vous êtes vraiment ici," Devin breathed, easily falling into their old game of speaking in tongues. "J'ai cru que je ne vous verrais jamais de nouveau."

_You're really here. I thought I'd never see you again._

"I never should have left you," Murphy whispered. "Ego sum rumex, meus pectus pectoris."

_I'm sorry, my heart._

"Dove avere tu stato?" Devin demanded, a tear falling from her eyes.

_Where have you been?_

Murphy paused. "Around. We've moved a lot, Con an' me."

The most important question of all- _do you still love me?_- was on the tip of Devin's tongue, but she bit it back, instead wrapping her arms around Murphy more tightly.

"Crothneadh mé tú go mhór, Mac," she whimpered, sounding like a lost little girl.

_I missed you._

Murphy closed his eyes and pulled her closer, groaning deep in his throat. "I missed ye too, Mo Chroí."

He slid his finger under her chin and gently tipped her head back, then placed his lips on hers. Devin sighed and kissed back; there was time enough to talk, to think. Right now, for the first time in a decade, she wanted to feel.

Perhaps she should have stopped it when Murphy deepened the kiss, tangling his fingers in her hair and sweeping his tongue into her mouth. But finally, finally she was feeling… and she felt so alive… and she needed him now, needed to feel his warmth and his pulse and hear his breath to convince herself she wasn't dreaming.

Maybe she should have pulled away, gone for a cab to take them to his apartment or her hotel. But the air was warm, the park was deserted and reminded her of home, and there was nothing to make her wait.

Their first time had been out in the open, under the light of the full moon. They'd had no music but for insect melodies and the sounds of the night and their own breathing; no luxuries but for the sweet-smelling grass and the air that smelled of springtime. Maybe it was fitting that this first time was the same way.

**

* * *

**

Parilitas

Niamh glared as Murphy turned and ran out the pub door after Devin. She lunged forward to chase the bastard, but a pair of strong arms held her back.

"Le' me go, Connor," Niamh exclaimed, struggling.  
"Calm down," Connor said evenly.  
"Now is not tha time ta be calm!" she snarled. "Now lemme go before 'e catches up to 'er!"  
"Let Murph and Devin sort themselves out," Connor said, not-so-gently pushing her onto a barstool and placing one hand on either side of her, effectively trapping her against the bar. "Ye've got some explainin' ta do, Niamh Saorise MacCoy. Ya told yer sister tha' Murphy an' I were dead when ye obviously knew very well tha' we weren't. How could ya do it?"  
"I did it fer her own damn good," Niamh spat out. "I knew the truth- 'e was never comin' back, an' you'd never leave 'im. I wasn't gonna let th' bastard ruin me sister's life again."

The word _again_ hung heavily in the air between them, and Niamh knew she'd said too much. She swallowed hard, praying that Connor wouldn't notice her unintentional slip.

"Don' talk about me brother like tha', Niamh," Connor said sternly. "'E's done nothin' but love Devin."

Any other time, Niamh would have heeded the warning implicit in Connor's tone. She would have backtracked, apologized, tried to make him understand. But she was drunk, and she was angry, and the memory of Devin's distraught face was killing her with guilt and remorse, and Connor's staunch defense of his brother, who had brought so much grief and pain to her sister, seemed to Niamh the very blackest and most disgusting of betrayals.

"I'll not apologize fer speakin' the truth," she growled. "'E ran out on 'er when she needed 'im the most, an' you allowed it. Yer both disgustin', an' I'm ashamed I ever met ye."

She shoved against his chest, and he let her go. Niamh looked up at Connor, telling herself that she was in the right, that he deserved the shock and pain she saw in his face though she knew he was doing his utmost to compose himself. She ruthlessly squashed the new kind of guilt rising in her chest, clinging desperately to the flaming anger that was even now dying.

"C'mon then, I'll take yeh home," Connor said quietly.

Niamh shied away from him, even in her drunken state fearing the quiet finality in the set of his jaw, and beginning to wonder what she'd just done.

"I don' need help from th' likes o' ye," she scoffed, covering her half-articulated fears with venom.  
"Yeh'll not be walkin' to yer hotel alone," Connor said firmly, catching her arm above the elbow and firmly steering her towards the door. "Not late at night, an' you drunk."

He ignored all her protestations, guiding her to the corner alcove and waiting until she reluctantly took her coat and Devin's. If Connor had a comment upon seeing the initials MM stitched into the worn lining of Devin's old peacoat, he said nothing; he merely grabbed his own peacoat and ushered Niamh outside.

It was an awkward, silent six-block walk to the hotel where the MacCoy girls were staying. Niamh crossed her arms and huddled into her coat, cold despite the warmth of the night, and all too conscious of the anger Connor was keeping locked inside. She knew she was the cause, and knew she had to make amends, but she found that for once in her life she had no idea how to proceed. And with each passing moment the gulf between them grew larger and larger, and it was harder and harder to open her mouth to apologize.

Connor walked Niamh all the way to her hotel door on the third floor of the building. They stood in silence while she fumbled for her key, but he didn't make a move to follow as she walked inside.

Niamh turned, not knowing what to say but knowing she had to say something, but the look in Connor's eyes robbed her of all speech. He looked at her for a long moment. Then he quietly said 'goodbye' and turned, walking away. Niamh stared after him dumbly, watching but not seeing his departure. After a long moment, she shut the door, not bothering to turn on the light. She made her way through the darknened room and sank onto the edge of the bed, wondering what she had just done.

* * *

**Name Meanings** [all names from behindthename .com]  
Saorise: 'freedom' [SEER-sha]

**Guide to Foreign Languages** [tranlsations from text-to-speech .imtranslator .net, translation2 .paralink .com, and tranexp .com]  
Fidelis: 'faithful'  
Mo chuisle: 'my pulse' [Gaelic]  
Mo chroí: 'my heart' [Gaelic]  
Mo shaol: 'my life' [Gaelic]  
M'anam: 'my soul' [Gaelic]  
моя тайна: 'my secret' [Russian]  
Mein stern: 'my star' [German]  
Mi querido: 'my beloved' [Spanish]  
Vous êtes vraiment ici. J'ai cru que je ne vous verrais jamais de nouveau: 'You're really here. I never thought I'd see you again.' [French]  
Ego sum rumex, meus pectus pectoris: 'I'm sorry, my heart' [Latin]  
Dove avere tu stato: 'where have you been?' [Italian]  
Crothneadh mé tú go mhór, Mac: 'I missed you, Mac' [Gaelic]

**Notes about Geography** [information from boston-online .com and lonelyplanet .com]  
Boston's Harborwalk is located all along the harbor, from Charleston and East Boston in the north to Mattapan and Quincy in the south.  
County Tipperary is located in the southern part of Ireland, west of Wexford and northeast of Kerry and Cork.

**Disclaimer-Slash-PSA**: Most of the time, I don't mention my characters using birth control. That's because they live in a fantasy world of my own creation, one where STI's are non-existant and pregnancy only happens when I give the A-OK. That doesn't mean I endorse unprotected sex. In addition, just because Devin and Murphy are having this particular type of reunion, that doesn't mean I endorse casual sex. This is a story, not real life. Be smart about your sex life.


	4. Warmth and Chill

**Author's Note**: This chapter was a pain in the ass to write. I ran into writers' block with each of the three POVs, and then I got really mad at Niamh about halfway through the chapter [which quite honestly isn't unusual; she and I don't get along very well 98% of the time]. I will say, however, that my favorite parts of this chapter are the conversation [per say] between Murphy and Connor, and Niamh's flashback. I loved watching Con and Murph's interaction, and the memory Niamh has is of a conversation between herself, her mother, and Ma MacManus, and I find it glorious even though it's horrible and evil. Which probably says something about me, but there you go.

**Disclaimer**: Yes, I gave Murphy tattoos that Norman Reedus doesn't have. I, having freeze-framed certain parts of BDS far more than is healthy, fully realize this. It's called artistic license. It was a story point I wanted, so I sacrificed reality. Don't have Troy Duffy hurt me.

**Special Thanks**: I was talking to my beta George [aka Magnus] while I was writing/editing Niamh's flashback, and he got us both unbelievably mystified about what was going on and why everybody was doing what they were. It was confusing as hell while we got ourselves straightened out, but amazingly comical. So thanks to him for keeping me from killing Niamh for annoying me so much.

* * *

**Una**  
Murphy lay in bed, perfectly content to lay still, blinking lazily in the warm sunshine, and reverently staring at and touching the most beautiful woman in the world. Words couldn't describe how incredibly content he was to lay in bed with her among the tousseled sheets and the warm September sunshine. He was quite positive he could happily spend forever like this.

She was still asleep, covered only by the rumpled sheet that rode low on her hips. She lay on her stomach, her head pillowed on her arms, her shaggy hair laying in all directions. Though this hairstyle suited her, Murphy mourned the loss of the waist-length mane she had once had. Much of Devin's physique had changed, and Murphy wondered how much more her personality had altered. She was sleeker all over, more toned than he remembered. In addition to her ears, her nipples were pierced, a fact that drove him wild. She had more tattoos now- in addition to the St. Joseph on the right side of her neck [the tattoo she shared with her twin] and the celtic braid in the form of a shamrock with the phrase Mo Chroí right between her breasts [which matched the one between his pecs], she now had Fidelis tattooed on her left hand, angel wings that covered most of her back, and a celtic cross on her right forearm.

Murphy's gaze lingered on the cross. Nestled amongst the braiding that comprised the circle encompassing the top of the cross were three names- Connor, Murphy, and Cillian. It had long been a custom in the MacManus and MacCoy families to tattoo the names of deceased loved ones on their bodies; he and Connor had tattooed an R on their arms recently in honor of Rocco, and Murphy had 'Norman,' the name of a dear high school friend who'd died in a car accident, tattooed over his heart. A troubled look passed over Murphy's face as he wondered who Cillian was, and what he had been to Devin that merited his name being tattooed onto her arm.

He should let her sleep, Murphy admonished himself. But he couldn't seem to keep his hands off her. No matter how much he had touched her last night, part of him was still convinced that he was dreaming, that at any moment he would wake up, and she would disappear, and he would be alone again, with nothing but an aching heart for company.

Devin emitted a soft sigh and stirred lazily. Murphy hitched himself up onto his elbow, running his fingers along her incredibly sensitive spine as she slowly woke up. She shivered, then focused on him, blinking once, twice, before smiling.

"I wasn't dreamin'," she said wonderingly, her voice still adorably thick with sleep.  
"Nah, love. Unless we're havin' the exact same dream," he grinned, leaning down to kiss her.

The kiss turned from soft and sweet to as passion-filled as last night in a moment's time. Half-consciously, he shifted so she was pinned beneath him, needing to know she couldn't get away from him. When the kiss finally ended, Murphy rested his forehead against Devin's while she cradled his face between her hands.

"I thought I'd never see ye again," she murmured, but there was no sadness in her voice; only a profound awe.  
Murphy winced, a heavy guilt settling in his chest as he was reminded of Niamh's lie. "I never meant ta be gone so long, Devin. I dunno what I was thinkin' of ."  
"It doesn't matter, Murphy," Devin said, her voice becoming choked with emotion. "What's done is done, there's no changin' it. But now yer here, and I'm here, and tha's all that matters."  
"I'll not let ye go again, Mo Chroí," Murphy whispered. "I'll not survive it a second time."  
Devin bit her lip. "It's been ten years, Mac," she said softly. "An' we've both changed, maybe not fer the better. Maybe it's best to get reaquainted before you start promisin' forever."

Though quite sure he wasn't going to change his mind any time soon, Murphy respected Devin's need to reorient herself, to adjust to Murphy's reappearance and the changes that came with ten years' absence. He would give her all the time she needed, as long as she came to the conclusion that she was still his.

They stayed in bed for hours, caressing, kissing, holding, staring at each other. It was their stomachs that finally drove them from bed. Murphy grinned as he handed Devin a shirt and pajama pants of his; he found it incredibly sexy to see her wearing his clothes.

"What're yeh hungry for, love?" he asked as he led her into the kitchen.  
"I've missed yer grilled cheese sandwiches-" Devin replied, before stopping in her tracks.

Though she didn't consciously recognize the gray-haired, beared man who sat at the table reading the paper and drinking coffee, Devin knew she knew the gentleman. Something about him- the look in his eyes, the butterfly tattoo on his hand- was annoyingly familiar; recognition nagged at the edges of her mind, but she just couldn't place him.

Murphy turned to see what had caught Devin's attention, then grinned. "You remember me da from the pictures, don't yeh? Da, remember Devin MacCoy?"  
"O'course I do," Mr. MacManus said, setting down his paper. "Yer a wee bigger than yeh were, last I saw yeh."  
Devin blinked, staring. "Noah… I thought yeh were dead! We all did!"  
"Not dead, jus' imprisoned," Noah MacManus replied, stepping forward to embrace his goddaughter.

By now, Devin had gone through so many reversals and surprises with the MacManus men- learning the twins were alive and that Niamh had lied about it, spending the night with Murphy and learning he still loved her, and now seeing her godfather alive and well- that she had lost her ability to be shocked. It was almost as though her mind was protecting itself against futher emotional damage, and only processing positive emotions. So the only thing Devin felt as she relaxed into Noah's embrace was a profound joy.

Murphy smiled to himself as his da and Devin sat at the table, getting caught up on the past three decades, give or take. He turned to the stove to cook Devin's grilled cheese, confident that his da would welcome Devin into the family with open arms.

Murphy looked up and grinned as his twin walked in, though the smile dimmed when he saw how tired and pale Connor was. He looked awful, as though he'd been out walking all night [which, knowing Connor as Murphy did, he probably had been]. Connor stopped at the threshold, leaning against the wall and folding his arms as he took in the scene before him.

Con and Murph had always had the uncanny ability to have full conversations without saying a word. Sensing that Connor wasn't really in the mood to join the domestic scene before him, the twins began speaking in silence.

Murphy raised his eyebrows, tilting his head.

_Where were you?_

Connor shrugged, looking down at his worn boots.

_Out._

Connor looked up, smirking faintly, eyebrow cocked, tilting his head toward the table where Devin and Noah laughed, oblivious to the blond twin's presence or the conversation going on around them.

_You get lucky?_

Murphy looked at the table, his face softening, a small smile gracing his lips.

_Yeah, I did._

Connor rolled his eyes and shook his head, a mocking smile on his face.

_You sound like a fucking woman._

Murphy rolled his eyes and shook his head, turning back to his cooking.

_Ass._

Connor caught his twin's eye, a faint but genuine smile on his face.

_I'm happy for you, brother._

Murphy smiled, then furrowed his brow.

_Are you alright?_

Connor shrugged, looking away.

_I don't wanna talk about it._

Murphy nodded, watching his brother silently disappear down the hallway to his bedroom. It didn't take a genius to realize that after Murphy had raced after Devin last night, Connor had remained behind with an irate Niamh. Apparently, whatever had transpired between them hadn't gone well.

Murphy felt for his brother, truly, even though he had yet to forgive Niamh for what she'd done to Devin and him. But Murphy had always suspected his brother of being sweet on the other MacCoy twin, even if he didn't fully realize it, and he knew how it pained Con to be at odds with his best friend.

Maybe, after he got done being mad at Niamh, he'd help his brother. Until then, though… he fully intended to enjoy this one day he had with Devin before she returned to Brooklyn.

Enjoy it he most certainly did. After eating, Noah encouraged the young folk to go for a walk and enjoy the streets of Boston. It didn't take much to persuade them, and when they were gone Noah laughed, shaking his gray head.

"Ah, young love," he muttered, his mind straying to his Annie and yearning for home.

They walked through the streets [Devin dressed in Murphy's clothes so she wouldn't have to wear last night's sundress, which was a bit too cold for the fall day], enjoying steaming cups of coffee and each other's company. Though they spoke some about the years they'd been apart, neither asked questions that were too prying; each felt that the relationship was too new and too fragile to bring in the demons of the past just yet.

He took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers, amazed at how their hands fit like puzzle pieces.

"Yer still wearin' this," he said quietly, raising her hand and studying her claddagh ring.  
"Aye," Devin replied, just as quiet. "Always."  
"Yeh never dated?" he couldn't help but ask, the mental image of Devin with another man nearly choking him with jealousy.  
She shook her head. "Never. They weren't you."

Though he felt better knowing that no other man had ever tried to claim what was his, he couldn't help but wince, the guilt tightening his chest again. He'd never meant to leave her, hadn't wanted to condemn her to a cold and lonely ten years. He'd wanted to give her a home, a family of their own, a fairy tale life.

But he had left, and he had become a Saint, and their dreams would have to remain just that- dreams.

Murphy could feel the icy chill of reality settling in, cooling and tempering his burning passion for Devin with a distressing finality. As long as he was a Saint, as long as his mission hung over his head, he could never give Devin what she deserved. How could he put her in danger like that, to put her on the hit list of every enemy he'd made in his tenure as a vigilante? How could he be a worthy father if he risked getting killed every night?

That idea, once thought, refused to be dislodged, and cast a pall on the perfect day. And, once thought, it gave him pause. Should he really pursue a relationship with Devin when he couldn't give her what they once dreamed of?

A shiver from Devin drew Murphy from his chilling thought train.

"Yeh cold, love?" he asked, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.  
Devin nodded, huddling into him. "I lef' me coat in the bar las' night."  
"Well, I'll jus' buy you a new one!" he grinned.  
"I'll not ask yeh ta do that," she started.  
"Yer not askin', I'm tellin' ya," Murphy said firmly. "I'm gonna take care o' me girl."

Protest she did. Futilely. Murphy marched her into a store and damn near stuffed her arms into coats until they found one they agreed on- a peacoat in a beautiful shade of green. Murphy grinned and paid for it, deaf to Devin's protests, then led her back to the streets.

"When do ya have ta go back to the hotel?" Murphy asked.  
Devin checked her watch and sighed. "An hour."  
Murphy nodded, tamping down his unhappiness, knowing their separation was inevitable. "What'll we do with the time, then?"  
"We'll go to the park," she replied. "An' we'll sit in the sunshine, an' we'll be together."  
He nodded. "Aye. Alrigh', mo chuisle."

They walked to the park and sat on the grass, basking in the sunshine. Murphy wrapped his arms around Devin, holding her close, begrudging every passing minute. Lord, he didn't want to let her go. Who knew when he'd manage to see her again? He didn't want this fairy tale day to end.

But end it did, as all things must. He walked her to her hotel, they kissed one final time, exchanged cell numbers… and then she went inside, and it was over.

He took his time walking home, clinging desperately to the warmth of her memory as the chill of reality closed in about him. He couldn't give her what he once promised her- a life, a home, marriage and family. He was a marked man, set apart from the world he protected. The only way he could have Devin was if he was willing to expose her to his life- his full life, killing and all. He couldn't do that to her.

He had to let her go.

His heart immediately ached at that, rebelling at the prospect of letting her to so soon after he'd found her again. There had to be something he could do to have both his life as a Saint and the life he wanted with the woman he loved…

Murphy ran an agitated hand through his hair. "I need Da."

* * *

**Veritas**  
He'd spent another long night pacing the streets, lost in his thoughts. He was getting too old for this, Connor thought ruefully; he should've been past the stage where a fight with Niamh caused him to lose sleep.

The moonlit hours had slipped by quickly, with Connor unable to form a single coherent thought, memories of what had transpired senselessly chasing each other through his head out of sequence. Numbed by the countless questions he had- none of which seemed to have an answer- he'd reluctantly returned home.

The scene he'd found in the kitchen only confused him more. Niamh had said that Murphy had ruined Devin's life, and yet there she was in their kitchen, laughing with Murph and their da like she belonged there. Maybe Niamh's accusations would've made more sense if Devin had avoided Murphy, or smacked him across the face at the bar. But seeing her like this- so completely happy to be around Murphy, so patently in love with him though she was obviously trying to deny it to herself- how did this fit with what Niamh had said?

He could've joined his family in the kitchen, and felt perfectly at his ease. He would've enjoyed teaming up with his da to take the piss out of his twin and Devin. But he was tired, and confused, and he needed to think. So after a silent conversation with Murphy, he'd retreated to his room for some much-needed privacy.

He locked his door, then removed his peacoat and kicked off his boots, shedding his clothes down to his boxers before dropping onto his bed. He kept his mind carefully blank until he was reclining comfortably, and then he went over last night's events slowly, methodically, trying to make sense of each piece before moving onto the next.

From what Niamh had said, Murphy had broken Devin's heart. And yet Devin was still wearing her claddagh ring, and wearing it on her left hand. She was using Murphy's old peacoat for her own. The way she'd clung to Murphy when he kissed her indicated anything but hatred. Was it possible that Niamh had misinterpreted her sister's feelings?

No, Connor decided immediately. Niamh and Devin had been every bit as close as he and Murphy, could read each other just as accurately. There was no way that Niamh could mistake what her sister thought and felt about Murphy.

Niamh hadn't told Devin that she'd been visiting Connor when she came to Boston. Moreover, she'd let her twin believe that Connor and Murphy were dead. She'd told Devin ten years ago that the boys were dead, and had kept up the deception ever since. What had driven Niamh to tell such a lie? Though she often ran her mouth when angry, Niamh wasn't by nature a person who enjoyed causing others pain; Connor didn't believe for a second that she had enjoyed decieving her twin. From her comments, Connor knew Niamh had done what she did because she honestly believed she was protecting Devin.

The question was, what was she protecting her sister from? What could Murphy have done that was so horrendous that Niamh had decided to remove him from Devin's life?

For some reason, Connor didn't think it was just the fact that he and Murph had left, though that was the only reason he could see. Had Murphy done something like end his relationship with Devin before they left? From what Connor had seen, that wasn't bloody likely. Murphy still had every intention of marrying Devin, and she looked more than happy to agree to his plan. So what hidden transgression had Murphy admitted that pissed Niamh off so thoroughly?

There was something off about the entire situation, something not quite on the level. But damned if Connor knew what it was.

He didn't want last night to cost him his best friend. The fight was too ridiculous, the accusations and anger too outrageous to believe. Connor wasn't really mad at Niamh anymore… but what the bloody hell had she been talking about?

The question continued to plague him as his heavy eyelids closed, but before he could find an answer, he fell asleep.

* * *

**Parilitas**  
Niamh hadn't slept well. She had tossed and turned, throwing off and pulling on the covers as she twitched and shifted. She'd suffered from insomnia; when she finally could sleep, it was only in short bursts, and each time her dreams had been plagued by faces- her sister, devastated and hurt; Murphy furious; Connor incredulous, then cold and distant. When she'd given up on sleep at 2 am, she had curled up in one of the room's armchairs, blankly staring at her Bible as her fingers moved over the rosary bracelet on her wrist. Though she saw the words on the page, she didn't comprehend them at all; nor did she register the prayers she methodically recited. Her mind was elsewhere, waiting for a reasonable time to call her mother.

She didn't have a long wait, but while she sat she observed. She was still alone in the room, and Devin's bed was pristine, her bag still in the middle of the mattress. Which meant she hadn't come back last night. Niamh hadn't really expected her to. Though she knew her sister was completely capable of taking care of herself, Niamh still worried, hoping that she hadn't run into any trouble last night. She even found herself grudgingly hoping that Murphy had found her; better for Devin to be in that bastard's company than helpless and in the hands of some thug, though she didn't really believe that her twin would actually be helpless if a thug were to find her. Actually, if a thug did stop her, Niamh felt sorry for the poor bastard; he'd be in a world of hurt by the time Devin was done with him.

Shaking her pretty head, Niamh reached for the phone and called her mother in Carrick-On-Suir.

"Dia Dhuit."  
"Ma, it's Niamh."  
"Well it's about time ya got around ta callin' yer poor old ma!" came a warm, maternal voice. "And me wonderin' fer t'ree weeks an' more where ye are, and if yer alright!"  
"Sorry Ma, we were tied up," Niamh explained.  
"Well, yeh've called now and set me worried heart at ease, and that's all that matters," Aileen MacCoy said. "What's new in America, then?"  
Niamh drew a breath. "Devin knows. About Murphy. They met up in the bar las' night."  
"Oh," Aileen said after a pause, her voice now tired and strained. "Well, we knew it had to happen someday."

There was a moment of silence on the phone, and Niamh found her mind wandering back to the night when she and her mother had agreed upon their deception.

_19-year-old Niamh and her mother Aileen MacCoy stood in the MacCoys' kitchen with Annabelle MacManus, keeping a vigil through the hot July night. Niamh and Annabelle clutched glasses of ice water while Aileen walked around the kitchen, preparing medicine, cool cloths, and hot broth. They spoke in hushed whispers, each straining to catch any hint of sound from the darkened room upstairs where Devin lay in a fevered delirium._

_"Surely yeh understand why we're doin' this, Annie," Aileen said anxiously as she worked. "It's been a year now, without a word from either of 'em. An' on top o' this new sorrow…" _

_She glanced to the ceiling, half-hoping but half-dreading to hear any whisper of sound from the sickroom they'd prepared when Devin fell ill. She had been in bed for almost three weeks now, and her fever was still dangerously high, her breathing still horribly labored. Doctor O'Malley had suggested more than once that she be brought to the hospital, but Aileen and Padriac had refused, saying they would tend to their daughter at home or not at all._

_"The grief is too much fer anyone ta bear," Aileen said.  
__"An' you think tellin' 'er Murphy's dead will lessen the sorrow?" Annabelle asked, her voice gravelly from too much cigarette smoke and booze, and rough with concern. "Yeh don' know Devin, then. Seems ta me that tellin' her she's lost Murphy again, an' this time forever, will make the grief worse."_

_The conversation was cut off as a whimper was heard. It was weak, both in volume and in strength, but it was clear. Devin was crying out for Murphy, searching for him even through her fevered delusions, begging him to find Cillian, and for the both of them to return to her._

_"She still calls fer 'im, then?" Annabelle asked softly, her well-hidden [or so she liked to think] tender heart hurting for the girl she'd once thought would be her daughter-in-law.  
__"Sometimes, when the fever spikes or when the medicine's wearin' off," Aileen nodded, sighing. "Sometimes it's a whimper, sometimes it's a scream. She can't keep waitin' for 'im to come home, Annie, it's killin' 'er."  
__"I'd say it's the fever is killin' her, an' the love fer Murphy keepin' 'er alive," Annabelle said caustically. "If ya take that hope from her, who's to say what'll happen? She could die of a heart thrice broken."  
__"She'll move on," Aileen stated. "She needs ta forget any o' this ever happened."  
__Annabelle scoffed. "Yeh think she'll forget? Not fuckin' likely, Lee," she said, using the nickname she'd given Aileen when the two women met as children. "She'll carry the sorrow o' this to her grave, ye mark me words."  
__Aileen shook her head. "The young forget easily, tis in their nature."  
__"She'll not forget this," Annabelle insisted. "Not now, not ever. Ta lose 'em both, an' within a year of each other… ta lose Murphy twice, as yer proposin'… no, she'll not forget."  
__"But we have yer promise?" Aileen begged. "Yeh'll not tell 'er Murphy still lives?"  
__"Nay, I'll not tell 'er," Annabelle agreed heavily. "But yeh'll not stop me from callin' me boy and tellin' 'im his girl's ill. I should've called 'im the day she came down wit' the fever, but I held off because ye asked. Now, though…"  
__"No, 'e can't know!" Niamh burst in. "'e'd come straight 'ome, and she'd think it a ghost. She can' take the strain, Annabelle."  
__"Yeh've already got me keepin' one secret from me son, somethin' he's every right in the world ta know," Annabelle said, her eyes narrowing. "If 'e were ever to learn of it, it'd break 'is heart. Now yer askin' me to keep from 'im that the girl he loves is dyin'?"  
__"If 'e loved 'er, he'd not have left when she needed 'im," Niamh said tightly, trying to control her temper. "But 'e knew of 'er situation, an' he packed up anyways and left 'er behind. Left 'er alone in the world after he promised her everythin'. 'E doesn't deserve ta know."  
__"Don' be so sure," Annabelle said. "I know me boy. 'E's an ungrateful little pissant, but if he'd known anythin' about it he'd not have left without 'er. 'E'd'a done the right thing by 'er."  
__"But 'e didn't do the right thing," Niamh pointed out. "'E gave up the right ta know. Please don't tell 'im anythin', Annabelle."  
__"It galls me ta the bone ta do it," Annabelle said. "But I'll hold me tongue. But I tell the both o' yeh, someday he's gonna find out, and Devin will find out yeh've lied to 'er. And they'll never forgive the two o' ye."  
__"It's a risk we'll have to take," Aileen said. "I'm doin' this fer her own good, Annie. Ye know that, don't yeh?"  
__"Aye, I know it," Annabelle said heavily. "I know yer tryin' ta protect 'er. But I tell ye, Aileen, yeh'll come ta regret it." _

"Niamh?" Aileen asked, pulling Niamh from her memories. "Ya still there?"  
"Aye. Sorry, Ma, I was thinkin'," Niamh replied.  
"How is she?" Aileen asked.  
"She didn' come back las' night. She musta been with 'im. She's still not back," Niamh said heavily.  
"D'ye think she's told him?" Aileen asked.  
"I dunno, Ma," Niamh said. "But I doubt it. She never mentions anythin' of it ta me, an' I don't think she's ever told anyone else. I don't think she'd tell 'im so soon."  
"Maybe you girls should come 'ome fer a spell," Aileen suggested. "Three years is a long time ta be gone."  
Niamh hung her head. "We don' have the money right now, Ma. I wish we did. Anyways, Dev an' me both have work. An' I don't think anythin' could drag 'er away from 'im again, not now. But I'll bring 'er home soon, I promise."  
"Take care o' each other, ye hear?" Aileen demanded. "'Specially now that cad's back in Devin's life. Don't let 'im hurt her again."  
"Believe me, Ma, I won't," Niamh promised.

* * *

**Notes About Names  
**I got Noah MacManus' name from the imdb .com page for BDS2. So blame Duffy, not me.

**Guide to Latin** [translations from tranexp .com]  
Una: "together"


	5. Letting Go

**Author's Note**: Ye gods, I hated writing this chapter. I mean, it wasn't like this was a hard one to write [unlike the last chapter]- I cranked it out in a day. But I very much hated what I had to do to my poor characters [though I liked figuring out Noah's bit of exposition]. I finished writing this chapter and was literally depressed for the rest of the day.

Also, in case you were wondering about the lack of Saints action, I promise that's coming. There is a "destroy all evil" subplot to this story; I swear it's not just romantic entanglements. It's taking longer than I anticipated to introduce the mob plot; I think I got too fascinated by Niamh's anger with Murphy and the result of a lot of miscommunication between characters. But I promise, I am getting to the action. Slowly.

**Disclaimer**: Yes, Da's story completely contradicts what's said about him in the sequel. That'd be because I wrote this chapter way before the sequel came out. So ignore what's now canon and just accept the world I've got going here. I like my version better than the movie's.

**Special Thanks**: Murphy's conversation with his da literally would not exist if George hadn't workshopped it with me. Not only did he help me work out the dynamics of an awkward father-son conversation, but he's the one who more or less wrote the crux of Noah's speech. A million thanks to him.

Also, thank you to DemiTeaser for the review and for those of you who've put me on your story alerts!

**

* * *

**

Aequitas

He kicked open the door to their loft, anxiety and uncertainty making him more forceful than he meant to be. A cursory glance around told him that Connor was at home for once, probably still asleep, and his da was in the kitchen.

Murphy swallowed hard, slowly removing his peacoat and hanging it up before walking into the kitchen. Just because he needed his father's advice didn't mean he was looking forward to asking for it. It was awkward and strange, addressing feelings he couldn't control, and he'd just as soon prefer to swallow his discomfort and proceed as if nothing were wrong.

But Devin was too important to him to just brush off. He owed it to her, to his love for her, to think his way through this, to ask for advice so he could make the right decision by her.

The elder MacManus sat at the kitchen table, a mug of tea by his elbow as he complacently smoked a cigar and perused the paper. Most men read the newspaper to catch up on the news. Il Duce read it to keep abreast of the progress of justice, and to keep track of targets. Though he didn't look up, Noah greeted his son with a brief, "Evenin'." Murphy acknowledged his da with an uneasy grunt before going to the fridge to scrounge for food.

"Did you an' Devin have a good time, then?" Noah asked, calmly flipping the page.

At the sound of Devin's name, Murphy automatically tensed, nearly dropping the box of cold pizza he'd found. He fumbled with the box, somehow managing to knock over or nearly knock over almost everything in the fridge, before slamming the door shut and plopping down at the table.

"Fine," he mumbled, picking off the anchovies before stuffing the pizza in his mouth.  
Noah lowered his paper, raising his eyebrows at his unusually agitated son. "What the fuck's wrong wit' yeh, boy?"

Murphy sighed heavily, staring at his pizza, his appetite suddenly gone. He swallowed hard; here was his chance to get his da's advice…

"Nothin'," he muttered.

Brilliant. Just fucking genius.

"Bullshit," Noah said evenly. "It's about Devin, I take it."  
Murphy swallowed hard, the words he needed so badly to say sticking in his throat. "I need advice, Da."

Slowly, Noah folded and set down his paper, and lay his cigar in an ashtray. He pulled his chair up to the table, folded his hands upon it, and fixed Murphy with a steady gaze.

"Talk," he said simply.

That one word seemingly opened a floodgate, because once Murphy opened his mouth he found he couldn't close it again.

"I don' know what ta do, Da," he helplessly confessed. "I love 'er, so fuckin' much… I've loved 'er since we were fuckin' kids… I gave 'er a claddagh when we were seventeen, for fuck's sake, an' she's not taken it off since… an' I've not taken mine off… I mean, fuck, we were gonna get married, have kids, settle down. I still wan' that, so fuckin' bad. But it's all fucked up now, innit? Coz I'm a Saint now, an' tha' don't leave much room fer a family. But… Fuck, I lost 'er ten years ago, coz I was a fuckin' idiot. I won' lose 'er again. I can't. I just… I dunno what ta do."

Murphy continued on in this vein for quite some time, stumbling over his words, swearing, repeating himself. When he'd finally talked himself out, he heaved a great sigh and buried his face in his hands, lost in his confusion.

Throughout Murphy's tirade, Noah had sat silently, his face impassive. No trace of his thoughts could be seen in his features; he just listened and watched. The silence stretched on for long moments after Murphy finished speaking. He fidgeted in the quiet, half-anticipating but half-dreading what his da was going to tell him.

"The same questions went t'rough me mind when it was I who was Called," Noah began quietly.

Murphy looked at his da through his fingers before running his hands through his messy hair and leaning back to listen to the story, whch he'd never heard before. Though he and Connor had figured that their father had left Ireland to persue his Calling, Noah had never yet talked about it. Knowing his father's reticent habits, Murphy stayed quiet and paid attention, knowing there was a reason why Noah was going into his story.

Noah looked down at his hands, his gaze fixed on his butterfly tattoo. "I'd been doin' the Lord's work since I was a young man, before I even married yer mother. But it was only now, over twenty years later, that I'd been Called to the States ta destroy evil. I didna want ta go. I had yer mother, an' you an' yer brothers, an' a life in Carrick-On-Suir. Yer brother Reagan had jus' gotten engaged teh his Moira, an' Darragh had asked Pádriac MacCoy fer permission ta go steady wit' Róisín. I wanted ta stay, ta watch all ye grow up an' marry, an' watch our family an' the MacCoys intermingle. But the Lord had given me an order."

Noah leaned forward, fixing his son with an ultra-serious gaze.

"It's not easy, what we do," he said, slowly and heavily. "It requires faith, an' sacrifice. An' it's not fair. We move in the shadows, detested by men, held apart from what we protect. But what does the world need more? A happy young man, or ta be rid o' the scum that infests it? Not everyone can do what we do, son. We have a Callin'. We're meant fer a higher purpose. I know ye love Devin wit' every fiber o' yer bein', an' ye will till yer last breat'. But are ye willin' ta thrust her into the very maw of Hell, expose her ta the worst this world has ta offer, put her in danger every day, jus' so you'll be happy? If ye truly love her, son, yeh'll let 'er go."

Murphy let out a long breath he hadn't realized he been holding, feeling the last bit of fight leaving him. He bowed his head, accepting the inevitable. His da was right. As long as he was a Saint, he couldn't protect her. And if he couldn't protect her, he had no right to seek her love. It had to end.

"It hurts, Da," he was almost ashamed to admit, fighting not to cry.  
"Aye," Noah nodded, laying a hand on his son's shoulder, watching him grow up in an instant. "It'll be the hardest thing yeh'll ever have ta do."

He said nothing else; there was no more to be said. All there was to do was to do what must be done.

**

* * *

**

Fidelis

The car had been silent for an hour. Indeed, the girls had been silent since Devin walked into the hotel room. She had barely looked at her twin as she packed her bag and got ready to go. For once, Niamh too had been silent, and the quiet had thickened with every mile that passed, taking them further and further from Boston, and Devin's heart.

Normally, Devin didn't mind silence. She was comfortable perusing her thoughts, exploring the quiet. But tonight her thoughts were piling up in her throat, and silence wasn't going to work.

"How dare ye."

The words came out low, but the anger was unmistakable. Niamh jerked at the sound of Devin's voice, blinking.

"What?" she asked.  
Devin glared. "How the fuck dare ye. How _dare_ ye lie ta me."  
"How dare I?" Niamh repeated, incredulous. "We were protectin' yeh!"  
"Pull over," Devin said tightly.

Swallowing hard, depressed that this conversation had come upon them so soon, Niamh pulled over to the side of the road and killed the engine. She winced as Devin vaulted out of the car. So it was going to be a bad enough fight that Devin needed room to pace. Not a good sign.

"Whaddye mean, 'we'?" she asked through clenched teeth.  
Niamh swallowed, shoving her hands into the pockets of her trench coat. "It was when ye were so sick. You were dyin', Devin, waitin' fer Murphy was killin' yeh."  
"And ye thought the way ta help me was ta tell me he was dead?" Devin demanded, shoving Niamh against the car. "Thinkin' o' Murphy was the only thing that kep' me alive. An' then ye took 'im from me!" The tears blinded her, but she kept on. "What did ye mean, 'we'?"  
"Ma, Annabelle and I," Niamh said, wincing as a pained cry left Devin's lips. "We thought it'd help yeh, in the long run."  
"Help me?" Devin cried. "It almost killed me! D'yeh have any idea how hard it was fer me, to have lost both Cillian and Murphy? I nearly killed meself when you told me Murphy was dead! How could ye do that ta me?!"  
Though Niamh's heart lurched upon hearing Cillian's name leave Devin's lips for the first time in ten years, her temper snapped. "How could _I_ do it? How kin _you_ defend 'im after 'e ran out on ye? Especially the way ye were, at the time?"  
"What're ye talking about?" Devin exclaimed. "He didn' run out on me! 'E told me 'e an' Con were goin' ta find Noah! Who, by the way, they did find."  
Niamh blinked, stunned. "What?"  
"How could ye think 'e left me?" Devin demanded. "'E loved me! 'E still loves me!"  
"If 'e really loved yeh, don' ye think he would've come back fer ye before now?" Niamh shot back.  
Devin glared. "He loves me. An' I love 'im. An' we're gettin' married whether ye like it or not." Somehow, her glare got worse. "I lost 'im once, because o' you. I can't lose 'im again. I won't."

The fight probably would have escalated, but Devin's cell went off. Glaring at Niamh, she snatched up the phone.

"Dia Dhuit."  
"Devin."  
Despite herself, she smiled. "Murphy."  
"Are ye home yet?"  
"No, not yet," she replied, walking away from Niamh and playing with her claddagh. "We can't get home fast enough fer me."  
"Listen, Devin, I gotta talk ta yeh," Murphy said.

Devin paused, registering the strange tone in Murphy's voice. Though she couldn't say why, this phone call was making her increasingly uneasy.

"Look, I've been thinkin'," he said. "I think ye were right. It's been ten years, an' we're different people now. I look at ye, and yer not the Devin I knew."  
"Murphy…?" Devin asked, unable to keep the fear from her voice.  
"We had a nice day together, Devin," he said, sounding incredibly blasé and not at all her Murphy. "But it's over now. I don' want more."  
"Oh," she said blankly.  
"It was lovely teh see ye, but… marriage an' family, tha's not fer me."

The words cut her like a switchblade knife, tearing her heart into shreds. She didn't understand Murphy's sudden change in attitude, and to be honest she didn't want to. She just wanted to get off the phone.

"Well, in tha' case… thank you fer the day. Goodbye, Murphy," she somehow managed to say.

She shut her phone before another word could be said. Slowly, she sank to her knees, blankly staring at her cell.

Devin had never been one to rage, to scream, to throw things and cry. That was Niamh's way. But surely Niamh's approach- or anything, really- was better than to helplessly drown into a raging but utterly silent sea of despair, as she was now. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think. She could feel herself slipping into the mindless delirium she'd only experienced one other time in her life, the stupefaction she'd only escaped because of her belief in Murphy's love, enduring even beyond the grave she now knew her sister had put him in.

But that love was gone; perhaps Niamh was right, and it had been gone all along. She had been decieved, had believed Murphy's pretty words and deluded herself. The truth laid before her, bare and utterly inescapable. There was nothing left for her to do but let go of the only anchor she'd had for the last ten years, and sink into the all-consuming nothingness the truth represented.

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Notes About Family and Marriages

Alright, the MacManus and MacCoy families for the most part don't play a very large part in this story, but they are there at points, so I figured I'd better go ahead and explain now. Noah and Annabelle MacManus have seven boys. Aileen and Pádriac MacCoy have seven girls. These two families grew up together. Therefore, several of the children have married, forming one big happy MacManacoy family. Here's who's matched up with whom (children excluded):

Reagan MacManus: married outside the MacCoy family; his wife's name is Moira (nee O'Flaherty).  
Darragh MacManus: married Róisín, the eldest MacCoy daughter.  
Jacob MacManus: married Gráinne, the second MacCoy daughter.  
Pádriac MacManus: is a priest, so he didn't marry anybody.  
Éamonn MacManus: has been living with Aoife, the fifth MacCoy daughter, for quite a few years now; Annabelle and Aileen are pushing them to get married already.  
Connor MacManus: currently unattatched.  
Murphy MacManus: was engaged to Devin MacCoy; only God and I (and my beta, George) know how their situation is gonna pan out.

As for the remaining MacCoy sisters:

Fiona MacCoy: living with her partner, Colleen O'Shay, and the child they've adopted together.  
Liadan MacCoy: is dating. A lot. Lord only knows whether she'll marry or not.  
Niamh MacCoy: currently unattatched.


	6. Helpless Protection

**Author's Note**: I know many people would have written this chapter from Devin and Murphy's perspectives. But I was more interested in seeing how Niamh and Connor reacted to seeing their twins in pain, but helpless to do anything about it. I think that's much more interesting than focusing on how Dev and Murph are miserable, coz honestly, isn't that kind of self-evident?

Also, as promised, this chapter kicks off the third plot of the story, the one following the Saints' exploits against the scum of Boston. For the purposes of this story, the Saints will only be focusing on one group of bad guys- our favorite villains, the Yakavetta mob. Yes, I realize that Papa Joe was killed [rather spectacularly] at the end of the movie, but I'm using this mob because (a) everybody knows who these guys are, and (b) I could place the mob both in Boston and New York, and that would tie the Saints' job in with the relationships between Connor and Niamh and Devin and Murphy.

**Special Thanks**: Thanks to my mom, for shipping me a new laptop cord. In celebration of the fact that I have my internets back, I'm posting two chapters instead of just one. Yay.

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Parilitas

Niamh paced through the MacCoy girls' Brooklyn studio loft, hands behind her back as her agile, restless mind worked. Back and forth, to and fro, from the partitioned area where their beds lay to the kitchenette at the other end. She kept her pace measured and even as her thoughts ran haywire.

Against her will, Niamh's mind went back to the night the girls had returned from Boston. The moment Devin had dropped to her knees, Niamh had known what had happened. Murphy had played her sister for a fool, again. He had had his fun with her, then dropped her. Though Niamh felt the self-righteousness that came with being right, she hated that she had been right. Part of her had wanted Murphy to prove her wrong, to sweep Devin off her feet and give her what she'd spent years wanting- love, and marriage, and a family. To know that none of that would happen made Niamh all the more angry at him.

She had walked to her twin cautiously, dropping to her own knees when she saw the child-like, devastated look on Devin's face.

"Ye were right," she said, her shock and confusion plain in her voice. "He doesn' love me."

Devin looked up at Niamh, then broke down into tears. Niamh threw her arms around her sister, desperately wishing she could protect Devin from the pain she must now go through. Devin had already had to endure so much, and so much of that at Niamh's hands; she wished she could spare her sister more pain. But Niamh was helpless to do anything but hold on and not let her twin go.

Devin had collapsed into frame-rattling, gut-wrenching sobs, unable to hold herself up anymore. The sight of her normally composed sister so helpless sent the dual pains of anger and guilt ripping through Niamh's heart. She had only seen Devin like this twice before- when Cillian had died, and when she had told Devin that Murphy was dead. This was Devin at her most vulnerable, and Niamh found that she was afraid of seeing her twin like this.

Somehow, Niamh had gotten Devin into the car, and finished the drive to Brooklyn. It had taken Devin most of those two hours to cry herself out. As soon as they'd gotten their things into their loft, Devin had grabbed her wallet and taken off.

Niamh had wanted to follow her sister, but had gotten the feeling that Devin needed to be alone with her pain. So she contented herself with calling her ma and telling her the latest development, and then staying up and waiting for Devin to come home. Which she finally did, at 5 am, reeking of Jameson whiskey and tears. She had immediately staggered to her bed and passed out.

She had still been asleep when Niamh slipped out for early Mass. All through the service, Niamh had fervently prayed for her sister's peace and comfort, and for forgiveness for what she had done. After Mass, she had stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few things. When she returned to the loft, she'd found Devin awake and dressed, busily cleaning the apartment while Brooklyn Heights Radio, an online station, blared from Devin's laptop. She furrowed her brow; she had expected Devin to stay in bed all day.

"Dev, what're ye doin'?" she asked, setting down the groceries.  
"What's it look like I'm doin'?" Devin asked in a too-bright voice. "I'm cleanin'. This place is a wreck, Ma would be appalled."

Niamh sighed; so this was to be Devin's game. Instead of spending any more time mourning, she was going to go about and pretend that nothing was wrong. Of all Devin's malfunctional coping mechanisms, this was the one Niamh hated the most, because she knew Devin would use it as an excuse to not deal with what she was pretending hadn't happened.

She nodded, her heart skipping a beat when she saw her twin's left hand was bare. "Where's yer claddagh?"  
"Gone," Devin replied shortly, her voice rough.  
"Gone?" Niamh replied blankly. "But-"  
"Nee, please," Devin had cut her off quietly, pausing in her labors of scrubbing dishes, but not turning. "I don' wanna talk about it. I jus' wanna forget."

Niamh had nodded and turned away to tend to laundry. She found that she was incredibly disturbed by the disappearance of Devin's claddagh ring. She knew it was for the best, of course; a future with Murphy was impossible, there was no point in holding on to the past. But to see Devin let go of the symbol of her hopes and dreams so quickly… for some reason, it worried Niamh.

That had been three weeks ago. Devin hadn't mentioned the MacManuses once, and so neither had Niamh. Devin had done all she could to appear happy and normal. She kept herself supernaturally busy, never letting herself stand still, and she laughed and joked with everyone she saw. But Niamh knew that Devin wasn't nearly as fine as she pretended to be; she knew that late at night, when Devin thought her twin was asleep, she would curl up in a tiny ball and quietly cry herself to sleep, as she had done ten years ago when she thought Murphy dead.

Devin's pain was her fault, and Niamh was finding it increasingly hard to live with that guilt. Oh sure, most of it was Murphy's fault for playing her for a fool. But none of this might have happened if Niamh hadn't lied to Devin ten years ago. If only she'd told Devin the truth, that the boys weren't dead but that they were never coming back. Devin would have mourned, yes, long and hard. But then she would have gotten over Murphy, and moved on with her life, not pined for him only to get hurt again.

She wanted to make it up to Devin somehow, but knew there was nothing she could do except help her sister hide from the pain. Which was what she was going to do. Hence her current pacing as she waited for Devin to return from her errands.

The door opened, and Devin walked in, her arms full of newspapers. "We have a problem," she announced, dumping the papers on the table and tossing a black duffel bag onto the floor with a _clunk_.  
Niamh walked over to her sister. "What kind o' problem?"

Devin flipped through the pages of the _New York Post_, pointing to a certain article. Niamh pulled her glasses out of her pocket and fixed them on her face before leaning over the table, skimming the article. The headline read _Mob Boss Moves_.

"What th' fuck?" she asked, picking up the paper and taking a closer look while Devin tossed the black duffel into a cupboard.  
"Conzenio Yakavetta's leavin' New York an' movin' down ta Boston," Devin replied, starting a pot of water for tea.  
Niamh smirked. "Tryin' ta escape justice, is 'e?"  
"Not exactly," Devin said, measuring tea leaves into the caddy. "'E's movin' ta take over as head o' the family, now Papa Joe's dead. If he can consolidate th' Boston an' New York branches o' the family, he'll be one o' the most powerful dons on the East Coast. An' work'll increase tenfold."  
"Oh, tha' reminds me," Niamh said. "We need ta go ta Boston." Devin stiffened, and Niamh rushed to explain. "Sorry, I didn' mean fer it ta come out that blunt. But the Angels have themselves a coupla copycat killers. Some idiots in Boston, callin' 'emselves the Saints. They killed Papa Joe a few months ago- in public, no less, yellin' an' causin' all kinds o' confusion. They've done jobs here, too."  
"Yeh've gotta be shittin' me," Devin said, pouring the water and caddy into a teapot. "They can't be doin' a proper job of it, they've gotta be lookin' fer publicity."  
"Aye, but they've come into our territory. An' they're copyin' what we do, an' doin' it damn well," Niamh said grimly. "An' we're gettin' the blame fer it. Or credit, if ye wanna be optimistic."  
"So yer suggestin' that we take care o' Yakavetta, an' while we're at it get rid o' these Saints?" Devin asked.  
Niamh nodded. "I don' think Conzenio'll stay in Boston. He's spent years gettin' New York under 'is thumb, he'll move headquarters here. Keep a few underbosses in Boston, at the most. But the Saints're in Boston, an' I don' want 'em followin' us an' tryin' ta take our hits."  
Devin nodded. "Boston it is, then."

Niamh nodded again. Lately, Devin had buried herself in work, both at the pub and as an Angel of New York. She supposed it had something to do with the tattoo on her sister's hand; Devin considered faithfulness the most important thing in the world. Murphy had broken faith with her, so she transferred her devotion to him into keeping a faithful watch over the five burroughs, protecting the city from evil.

Ten years ago, in Ireland, the MacCoy sisters had been Called. The MacCoy women had a history of being Called to do the Lord's work in various ways- usually as spies and assassins. Now it was Devin and Niamh who bore the burden of being the Almighty's chosen ones, and it was they who recited the family prayer as a battle cry.

"_When I raise my flashing sword and my hand takes hold on judgement, I will take vengeance upon mine enemies, and I will repay those who hate me. O Lord, raise me to Thy right hand, and count me among Thy saints._"

They had killed many evil men throughout the five burroughs, but for the last year they had focused on the Yakavetta mob. Conzenio Yakavetta had taken over the New York branch of the mob. Now that Papa Joe was dead, it looked like Conzenio was angling to step up to the top position. And where he went, the Angels would follow.

Niamh walked outside to clean the car out in preparation of another trip to Boston. As she went, she flipped open her cell phone, knowing there was only one person who could help ease her helplessness, guilt, and frustration.

"Connor? I need ye. I'm gonna be in Boston fer a while, can ya meet me?"

**

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Veritas

Connor MacManus was not a patient man. Granted, he was better than his brother (thus, in his mind, proving he was the elder twin), but patience was not one of his virtues. So the fact that Murphy had spent the past three weeks silently brooding had Connor wanting to pull his hair out. He had no patience. Especially not when people were bringing misery upon themselves by their own stupidity or stubbornness.

"For fuck's sake, Murph, if ya miss 'er that much, jus' fuckin' _call_ 'er!" he exclaimed, after walking in on Murphy laying on the couch, staring out the window moodily.  
"I can't," Murphy mumbled.  
"O' course ye fuckin' can!" he said. "She gave ye her number, that means ye fuckin' call 'er! Ye love her, she loves ye, drive up ta see 'er!"  
"I told 'er I was endin' it," Murphy cut in.

Connor was, for once, speechless. For a whole two seconds he could only blink, his jaw slack as he tried and failed to form words. Then he exploded.

"Jaysus fuckin' Christ, ya bloody idiot! Why the holy fuck would ya do somethin' like that?!"  
"I can' take care of 'er an' be a Saint both," Murphy yelled.  
"Bullshit," Connor said immediately. "Yer so fuckin' stupid! What the fuck are ye thinkin' of?"

That was the point that Murphy tackled Connor. The next moments passed in a blur of limbs and screams and punches. Then a strong pair of hands had grabbed them and knocked their heads together, and Connor couldn't see straight.

"Tha's enough," Da said evenly.

Murphy pulled free of their da and stormed off to his room, leaving Connor to stare, bewhildered.

"What the fuck's wrong with 'im?" he asked, rubbing the growing bump on his forehead. "He spent ten years cryin' for 'er, then 'e has 'er fer one day an' lets 'er go?"  
"Leave 'im be, Connor," Noah said heavily. "Murphy did what he did out of love, an' it's killin' him."  
"But it makes no sense, Da!" Connor protested.  
"Have ye ever been in love, Connor?" Noah asked.

Connor made a face and shook his head. He'd always mistrusted love; look where it had gotten his parents, and look what it had done to Devin and Murphy. There was no room for that in his life, not with his Calling.

"It'll get to the point where love becomes the center of everythin'," Noah said, looking down the hall towards Murphy's door. "Where ye'll do anythin' ta keep the one ye love happy, an' safe. But Murphy's not free ta give Devin what she deserves. If he were ta do as yeh advise, an' marry 'er, he'd subject 'er to a life o' constant danger, an' fear, an' the possibility that he could die an' leave 'er. The only way fer him ta protect 'er is ta stay away, an' that's what he's doin'."

Connor was quiet for a moment, absorbing what his da had told him. It made sense, in theory; anyone connected to the Saints would be put in jeopardy. But he had the feeling that Devin was more than up to the challenge.

Personally, he couldn't imagine being in his brother's shoes. He imagined that it would be like having to give up Niamh… not that his friendship with her came even close to what he knew Murphy felt for Devin, but just the thought of shutting Niamh from his life again made Connor's blood run cold. He shook his head and spoke to clear his mind of the thought.

"Niamh's comin' inta town this weekend, with Devin," he told his da in a low voice. "Niamh has business ta take care of, she said they'd be in fer a week."

Noah nodded silently. Neither of them had to state that they wouldn't share this information with Murphy unless absolutely essential.

"Then I think we need ta go up teh New York," he said. "Papa Joe's brother is supposedly comin' down ta take over the family."  
"If they rear their heads again, we'll be ready," Noah said sagely.  
"And I've been talkin' ta some o' the boys in the police department, they said we've got competition," Connor said uneasily.  
Il Duce looked up intently. "What?"  
"They're called the Angels o' New York," Connor said. "They go after criminals in the city, been doin' it fer years now." He paused. "D'ye think they've been Called?"  
Noah thought before answering. "I don't know. But we'll find out, an' if they're not…"

Connor nodded. He'd never considered that God would Call others to the path that he and his family walked. If these so-called Angels were frauds, they would feel the vengeance of God's truly called Saints.

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Miscellaneous Notes

First off, about the chapter title. I realize that "helpless protection" is an oxymoron; that's kind of the point. Both Niamh and Connor feel helpless when faced with the misery that is Devin and Murphy right now, and they're both bound and determined to protect their sibling from further harm. Additionally, "protection" refers to the war that seems to be brewing between the Saints of South Boston and the Angels of New York. I hope that plot hasn't been done to death, because I'm really looking forward to it…

The girls' prayer comes straight from the movie. Da MacManus speaks those lines in a voiceover during the first scene when the twins are in church- right before the whole Kitty Genovese speech. I figured that the Angels should have a family prayer, and they couldn't know the MacManus prayer, so there we go. Whether that one word is 'haste', 'hate' or 'haze', I'm not sure; I can't find any two sites that agree with each other. So I made a judgement call.

**Communication Notes**

I wanted to find a Brooklyn radio station that played Irish music, but I had no luck in googling it. So I went with the online site. Also, I hope everyone realized that the _New York Post_ is a real paper. I kind of wanted to find a Brooklyn paper, but the only one I found isn't in print anymore, so we went for the big city rag.


	7. Revelations and Secrets

**Author's Note**: Devin's POV went in a drastically different direction than I thought it would [imagine that; I swear she lives to antagonize me]. I wanted her to go to the Boston Police Department and flirt with Duffy until he told her about the Saints. Instead, she decided to do things the hard way, and cause herself more heartache. She's a masochist that way.

Also, originally this chapter was going to be significantly longer. I wanted to put in a POV where the Saints go to take out a hit, only to find that the Angels beat them to it. But I decided that that scene would be much stronger in the next chapter. In fact, it inspired me to extend the next chapter, so it'll be about three times as long as I thought it would. So you have that to look forward to as you enjoy this chapter!

**Disclaimer**: There's a statement Connor makes in Niamh's POV that I suppose could be taken in an anti-homosexual light. I promise that's not the case. I am not now nor have I ever been anti-gay, and Connor's statement shouldn't be taken in that way. He nurses a grudge against Rosengurtle, that's all. The Author is not sticking any opinions in his mouth. Don't you dare try to sue me for that. Additionally, Rosengurtle doesn't belong to me; I'm just mentioning the incident for shits and giggles.

**Special Thanks**: Thanks to DemiTeaser for your comment! Hopefully this chapter whets your Connor appetite and tides you over for a while until his plot really picks up!

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Fidelis

Devin looked up at the South Boston Branch Library, shifting the strap of her messenger bag to settle it more comfortably on her shoulder. The library was an unimposing brown brick building, with two stories and an unremarkable 50s-style architecture. Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, she walked inside, exuding the air of confidence and swagger she'd need for her charade to work.

"Excuse me," she said to the middle-aged, stereotypical librarian behind the desk, working hard to conceal her Irish accent. "My name is Treasa Black, I'm a journalist with the _New York Post_. I'm doing a story about the Boondock Saints, and I was wondering if you might have some newspaper articles I could look through?"  
"Yes, of course," the severe-looking woman said, her speech uncomfortably well enunciated. "I am Linda Harrison, the reference librarian. If you'd just follow me, please."  
"Thank you," Devin nodded, pleased that the woman had bought her ruse.

She followed Linda through the shelves of books to a thick wooden door, marveling at the woman's unnaturally straight back and complete lack of fashion sense. She was garbed in a gray pleated skirt that fell to mid-calf and light peach short-sleeved blouse, with the buttons done up to her chin and a stiff collar. She even had a cameo pinned at her throat, and her gray hair was twisted back in a painfully severe bun. Linda turned, fixing Devin with a prim, severe look.

"Our newspapers are behind this door," she said. "The articles you'll want to see will be in the papers of roughly the last six months. If you need to copy them, please come and find me. And if you have any other questions…"  
"I'll be sure to let you know," Devin said smoothly. "Thanks so much."

Without sparing the woman a further glance, Devin walked in, closing the door behind her. The room was small and cramped, with a small table and desk chair, a microfilm machine, and cabinets full of papers.

"Right," Devin muttered to herself.

She took off her messenger bag and black leather jacket, tossing both on the table, before looking for the right cabinet. A quick look around revealed that each cabinet housed a different paper. A moment's searching yielded a likely-looking source. She pulled out the last six months' editions and brought them back to the table. She pulled her laptop out of her bag, opened it, and got ready to take notes, finally drawing an easy breath. Here, cloistered among newspapers, she was able to relax.

The MacCoys had been in Boston for two days. Two very long, nervewracking days. It was silly of her, she knew, but she kept seeing Murphy everywhere. He was on the street when she went for a walk, he was in the grocery store buying milk or at Starbucks getting a plain grande coffee, and she swore she'd heard him whistling on her way to Mass. He was haunting her, and she wanted to kill him for making her so paranoid.

But she couldn't kill him at the moment; right now she was on the trail of a couple of very annoying pseudo-Saints.

She started at the bottom of the stack and worked her way up, taking meticulous notes. From what she read, the Saints' M.O. was very similar to the Angels'. No one knew how they gained entry into the presence of their targets without anyone else seeing, but once inside their victims were subjected to a maelstrom of gunfire. Their main target was shot execution-style through the back of the head. The Saints left their victims prepared for a proper burial, arms crossed over their arms, coins over their eyes.

From the names and ranks of their targets, Devin figured that they had an informant, someone with mob ties, who could tell them where to go to find their victims. They were professionals, she had to give them that; they shot to kill, and they always made their mark. They only ever took out bad guys, which earned them brownie points, but she still couldn't be certain that they were legitimately Called.

And what if they were, she wondered. What if God had given His work to the Saints as well as the Angels? That would make them allies, she figured. If that was the case, she would have to find a way to contact them, to introduce herself and her sister, to join forces and work together.

But she still couldn't be sure. The papers revealed that Boston had a love-hate relationship with their vigilantes, something with which Devin was very familiar. Even the police department was ambiguous about the Saints' crimes. She made a mental note to stop by the department later; perhaps the authorities could give her more information about these elusive killers.

Matter of fact, the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced they couldn't be real. There had been a few stories about the Angels in the Boston papers, whenever the girls had come to kill in the city. It would be all too easy to read up on the Angels' crimes, and to copy them. The M.O.'s were too similar to be anything but copycat murders. Satisfied that the Saints were fakes, and that they would have to be eliminated in one way or another, Devin started to pack up. She was so engrossed in her work that she didn't notice when the door opened.

"Miss Black?"  
Devin whipped around, relaxing when she saw it was only the librarian. "Miss Harrison. I didn't hear you."  
"I apologize," Linda said, not looking very sorry at all. "I came by to see how you're getting on."  
"I'm doing well, thank you," Devin replied, silently willing the woman to leave her alone. "Just finishing up."  
"May I ask why a New York reporter is interested in a Boston crime spree?" Linda asked.  
Devin debated with herself for a moment, then decided she might as well tell the truth. "We have similar crimes going on in the five boroughs. The press calls them the Angels of New York. I'm interested in seeing if your Saints are accomplices, or copycats."  
"What have you found so far?" Linda asked.  
Devin checked her notes. "Their M.O.'s are practically identical. The only differences I can see are the manner in which the bodies are found, and where the victims are shot. The Angels don't leave coins over their victims' eyes; instead they leave crosses in their hands. And the Angels shoot through the heart, with such accuracy that one bullet will go through one atrium, the other through the ventricle beneath it. I would say that all these crimes belong to one pair of killers, but some of the dates overlap so that can't be it." She shook her head, then turned to look at the librarian. "May I ask your opinion of the Saints?"  
"On or off the record?" Linda asked.  
Devin raised her eyebrows. "Off."  
"Officially, of course, I would say that they are a menace and must be stopped. Personally, however, I believe they are heroes," she replied stiffly.  
Devin's eyebrows rose further. "What about their claims that theirs is the work of God?"  
"Whether or not the Almighty has assigned them their task is irrelevant," Linda sniffed. "The fact remains, they are taking mafiosos and criminals off the streets, and for that I thank them."  
Devin nodded. "Thanks very much, Miss Harrison. I'll just clean up here, and then I'll be on my way."

Devin waited until the librarian had left before turning to fold up the papers. She went about the task mechanically, her mind furiously working. Sighing, she opened the cabinet door. Then she found a headline that stopped her cold.

_The Saints of South Boston_

_Russian mob soldiers… killed in alleyway… St. Patrick's Day… MacManus brothers… heroes…_

Devin couldn't breathe. She stood frozen, staring at the paper that lay innocuously on the shelf, her mind reeling with fear and shock and suspicion. Surely it was a coincidence. Connor and Murphy couldn't be the charlatan Saints…

Could they?

Feverishly, she ripped through the papers until she got to the issue that discussed the assassination of the Yakavetta don. She had skipped this article earlier, not wanting to anger herself with the false Saints' arrogant speeches, which they must've ripped from a bad crime movie. Now though, she pored over every sentence, gleaning as much information as she possibly could.

She choked. There, before her eyes, were rough sketches of the Saints. Noah. Connor. Murphy.

Her mind snapped back to the day she had spent with Murphy three weeks ago. In the morning sunlight, she had seen a few scars, an old burn mark or two. She had asked him about them, and he told her that he'd gotten them at work. She had left it at that. She should have known better, she berated herself. She had similar marks; a shallow scar on her left thigh, a burn mark on her arm, long raised scars on her side from where bullets had skimmed past her. She should have put two and two together.

Numbly, Devin she slid down onto the floor, burying her face in her hands as the tears began. The men she loved were killers, charlatans, fakes.

She pulled on the chain around her neck, wrapping her fingers around her claddagh. She had told Niamh that she'd gotten rid of it. That wasn't a total lie; she had thrown it away. But ten minutes later she had fished it back out of the trash, disinfected it, and put it on this chain. Heartbroken and furious with Murphy though she was, she couldn't let go of her love for him that easily.

But she would have to fall out of love with him now, and quickly. Or else she would never be able to kill him.

She knew that she would have to tell Niamh about the Saints' identity. She wouldn't make her sister's mistake of withholding information. Just… not yet. Let Niamh keep her friendship with Connor for just a while longer, until the Angels were ready to strike. Let Niamh be happy just a little while longer.

Long enough for Devin to cut her heart out of her chest, so she could stand to do what needed to be done.

She stared blankly at the newspaper, unable to process what she knew to be true. No. No, this couldn't be right… her Murphy, the charlatan vigilante?

She blinked through her tears and leapt to her feet, trembling as rage burned away her shock. That complete… and utter… bastard! her mind raged as she shoved the newspapers back into the cabinet.

Her mind whipped through the past, anger painting everything in a new light. Ten years of hearing nothing… Murphy himself had said he and Connor moved a lot… What had they been up to? He clearly hadn't wanted to be found… So she wouldn't discover his secret? Even their weekend together took on a new meaning. Had Murphy simply been distracting her while his brother and da took out a hit?

Somewhere deep in her psyche she knew she was being ridiculous. But she didn't want to be reasonable right now. Murphy's prolongued absence… his betrayal… and now this… her nerves couldn't take anymore stress, her heart could weather no more betrayal.

Murphy had abandoned her. And what's worse, he'd lied about why he'd done it.

And now she, God's consecrated Angel, was honor-bound to destroy him.

Vengeance had never tasted so sweet.

**

* * *

**

Parilitas

Niamh threw her head back and laughed. "Poor Manny," she choked out.  
"Yes, poor Manny!" Connor exclaimed. "I swear she was tryin' ta murder me crown jewels! Fuckin' lesbian psycho, I dunno why Michael hired 'er!"

Niamh laughed again at the mental image of Connor getting kicked in the nuts by Rosengurtle Baumgartener. The warm October sun shone on them, and a breeze ruffled her hair and skirt. She and Connor sat on the outdoor patio of Four Oaks Restaurant and Lounge, finishing up their meal. It had been awkward for all of five minutes before they'd gotten back to their normal selves.

He looked well, Niamh thought to herself. The sun lit him up, like a gilded god. He looked happy, and more relaxed than she had seen him in a long time. There was a smile on his handsome face, and a twinkle in his blue eyes, and Niamh found that she was happy to see him like this.

Connor hadn't asked after Devin, and Niamh hadn't supplied any information; likewise with Murphy. The topic was there, and Niamh supposed that she should bring it up, but she wanted to simply enjoy Connor's company for a while longer. So she waited through lunch, and until Connor had ordered them an ice cream sundae to share, before she spoke of it.

"Thank you fer comin'," she said, looking intently at the dessert so she wouldn't have to see his glorious smile fade. "I wasn't sure ye would, after what happened las' time I was here."  
Connor looked at her seriously. "Twas a wee disagreement, Bright Eyes, naught more. Yer protective o' Devin, as I am o' me blockhead of a twin. It's forgotten."  
"Still," she insisted. "I said some awful things tha' night, an' I didn't mean them. Truly."  
"I know," he smiled. "Ya fire yer mouth off when yer pissed off, I've always known that. I'll not let yer temper drive me off. But what drove ye ta call me?"  
Niamh bit her lip. "Devin."  
"She's not doin' well," Connor guessed, nodding when Niamh shook her head. "Because o' what me brother did."  
Niamh nodded, doing her utmost to keep her temper [for once] as she spoke. "How could he do that to 'er? Ta raise 'er hopes again, only ta drop 'er a day later?"  
Connor shook his head. "I dunno, Niamh. But I'm sorry fer everythin' 'e's done to 'er."  
She sighed heavily. "I'm so worried about 'er, Con. She pretends she's fine, that she's over 'im… she's not. I dunno if she ever will be. She's been through so much already… I dunno if she kin survive this. I dunno what ta do."

Connor stood and walked over to her, enveloping her in a hug. Niamh closed her eyes and hugged back, surrendering into his strength and comforting scent. For a timeless moment she let herself drift, held anchored by his wiry, strong arms, cuddling against a rock-hard chest that was softened only by his heartbeat. She clung to him, surprised to feel her anxiety melting away in his warm embrace. He kissed her temple with lips that were surprisingly soft for such a hard body, and rested his head on hers, numbing her with his earthy, male scent.

"Ya let 'er know yer there, that she's not as alone as she's makin' 'erself out ta be," he said softly in her ear. "Yeh take care of 'er, an' when it gets ta be too much, ye call me, an' I'll come take care o' ye. It's why I have this, remember?" he asked, pointing to his heart.

Niamh nodded, laying a hand over the tattoo she knew was under his shirt. They'd been very young when they'd gotten their tattoos, but they'd both been utterly serious about the oath behind it. They'd sworn that they'd always be best friends, that they would always take care of each other, that they were each other's protectors. So they had each gotten a heart tattooed over their hearts, with the other's initials inside.

Niamh sighed, savoring the comfort and strength Connor freely gave her. She hadn't realized just how much she'd been worrying about her sister, until Connor removed the burden for her. She held on as long as she dared, then let go, trying to smile for him.

He frowned. "That's a pathetic excuse fer a smile."  
She laughed ruefully. "Aye, twas. But I've not time fer more, I hafta go pick Devin up from the library."  
Connor glanced at his watch and nodded. "Aye, I'd best be off meself. Stay outta trouble, Bright Eyes, an' call me when yer free."  
"Aye, I will," Niamh nodded, kissing his cheek before taking off.

She smiled to herself as she got into her car. She could still smell his cologne and his own unique scent, could feel his stubbly cheek on her lips and his arms around her. And she liked it.

Then she shook her head and laughed at herself. She wasn't blind; Connor was an attractive man, and she'd be dead not to respond to his easy charm. But he was _Connor_. Her lifelong best friend, and naught more. She'd spent most of their teenaged years laughing at his exploits and conquests; she'd been by his side for every prank he'd ever pulled. She knew him better than anyone else. This attraction was ridiculous; the only reason she was reacting to him like this was because it had been a long time since she'd been with a man, and she liked the way he held her.

She would remedy that situation, and soon. But first, she had business to take care of.

* * *

**Name Meanings** (courtesy of behindthename . com)  
Treasa: "strength". It's Devin's middle name, which is why she used it as an alias. The adopted surname Black comes from the meaning of Devin's name, which as I've said before means "the black one."

**Note About Geography**: I googled both the South Boston Branch Library and the Four Oaks Restaurant and Lounge. The room Devin's in is modeled after the records room in my college library.


	8. Charlatans and Saints

**Author's Note**: Once I finally settled down to write this chapter, it went pretty quickly. My characters actually behaved for once- I think they're sick. But I appreciate the fact that for once they didn't give me a headache or try to massively change the plot. Also, you'll find that Connor and Niamh act very similarly in this chapter. That was intentional. I thought it was funny. Hopefully you'll think it's in character for them.

I love this chapter, honestly. I think it's really cute and playful, and I adore the ending. That probably says something about me, but… hopefully you enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: The chapter title comes from the title of the second act of _21__st__ Century Breakdown _by Green Day. Unfortunately, it didn't come from my own head, but rather from the head of one of my many male harem members, Billie Joe Armstrong. So don't sue me for stealing lyrics.

**Special Thanks**: Thanks to Arquero333, DemiTeaser, and eXsTorDiNaRiLy InViSiBlE for your reviews! Reviews are my crack, I swear…

**

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**

Sanctus

Connor glanced at his twin as they adjusted their ski masks and checked the clips of their Berettas one final time, silently asking if he was ready. Murphy nodded grimly, and then they were following their da into the mansion of Paolo Yakavetta, one of the major captains of the Italian mob family.

Two rooms into the first floor, however, and Connor was pissed off.

"How'd they do it?" he asked, shoving his mask up onto his forehead to reveal his irate face. "How the fuck did they know?"

Il Duce walked forward, removing his sunglasses to better see the sight before his eyes. There were three middlemen strewn around the room, but Paolo had clearly been the intended target. He had been shot twice through the heart. Moreover, where the others had been left on the ground, laid out for burial with crosses tucked between their folded arms, Paolo had been arranged in a chair, with a note around his neck.

_For the Saints, with the Angels' compliments._

"They're clever little fucks," Murphy commented, patting Paolo on the top of the head.  
"No, they're arrogant," Connor spat, pacing agitatedly. "They treat our Callin' like it's a fuckin' joke. Who th' fuck d'they think they are?"  
"A good question," Il Duce replied, lighting a cigar and regarding Paolo's corpse gravely. "Whoever they are, tis a job well done. Either they're Called, or they're well-trained villains."  
"Aye, but which is it?" Connor asked, kicking the leg of a decorative table.  
"I'll go down the station, ask Greenly an' the boys about it," Murphy suggested. "Meanwhile… at least they're dead."

Connor looked incredulously at his brother, but Il Duce nodded slowly.

"Aye, there's that small blessin'," he agreed. "Whether they're charlatans or saints, twas well done. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Who knows? Perhaps these Angels are a gift in disguise."

**

* * *

**

Aequitas

Murphy set off as soon as he'd showered and changed. He stuck his hands in his jean pockets as he walked to the Boston Police Department, thinking. Connor was well and truly pissed off at the Angels of New York for invading their territory and stealing a hit from them. Murphy figured that was because his brother truly loved what they did. He considered it an honor, and the best job in the world.

Murphy had originally been as enthusiastic as Connor about their elevation to Sainthood. But then he had spent a day with Devin, and his perspective had changed.

He didn't doubt his Calling. He knew he was chosen to be a Saint, and it wasn't a destiny he could hide from. But for the first time, he was beginning to wonder if he wanted it. Did he want to spend the rest of his life alone, with naught but his brother and da for company? Could he give up all hopes and dreams of a family of his own in order to be the figurative father and protector of the world?

The appearance of the Angels had increased his questions. If they were legitimately Called by God to join the Saints in their mission, then what was there to stop Murphy from retiring? Surely Connor and Noah could carry on without him, with the help of these mysterious Angels. He could step away, have a life of his own.

For a moment he indulged in the fantasy. He would go to New York, hunt Devin's apartment down, and refuse to leave until she let him grovel and beg for forgiveness. He would marry her, take her home to Ireland. He closed his eyes, the dream taking form. Devin as his wife, a fine dark-haired son in her arms and a wee beautiful daughter at her side… a home in Carrick-On-Suir, maybe the old farmhouse they'd always loved… they could take over the bar for his uncle Sibeal, or Devin could teach dance… It would be a wonderful life.

Murphy sighed as the vision faded. A beautiful dream… but a fantasy it had to remain. He could no more change his destiny than he could change the stars. And Devin… while she would always be the center of his universe, she was doomed to be like the sun. Beautiful, life-sustaining… and untouchable.

He shook himself as he walked into the station. These ruminations had to stop. There could be no future with Devin; it did no good to dwell on it. While he would always love her, he had to stop pining for her. She wasn't coming back, he had made sure of it. He had work to do; there was no sense in daydreaming.

"Well looky who id is!" Detective Greenly exclaimed. "How's it goin', Murphy? How's bidness?"  
"I'm well, yerself?" Murphy grinned, shaking the detective's hand.  
"Can't complain," Greenly responded, sitting back down. "What brings ya downtown?"  
"I was wonderin' if you lads had any information on the Angels o' New York," Murphy said, leaning against the desk.  
"Oh. Dem," Greenly sighed, leaning back. "Yeah, the FBI's got a file on 'em. Fuckin' ghosts, man. It's like you guys all ovah again."  
"Tell me about 'em," Murphy said, grabbing a chair and straddling it, folding his arms over the chair back. "What's their history?"  
"Like I said, dey're like you," Greenly replied, pulling up the Angels' file on his computer. "Dey showed up three years ago, took out a majah Columbian cocaine dealah. Dey like big-name crooks, powerful guys. When da Saints came around, FBI thought it was the Angels changin' turf for a while."  
Murphy nodded slowly. "So they're like us? They're not doin' it fer the fame?"  
Greenly nodded. "Three years o' work, dey've nevah taken out an innocent. Even some stories goin' around dat dey save innocents- from gang beatins, rapists, dat kindah thing."  
Murphy ran a hand over his stubbly jaw. "They took out a hit today."  
"No shit, anuddah one?" Greenly asked, leaning forward.  
Murphy furrowed his brow. "Another?"  
Greenly nodded. "Dey've been doin' hits in Boston for the last six months or so- people connected to deyre hits in New York."  
Murphy dragged his fingers up his cheek and into his hair. "They got Paolo Yakavetta."  
Greenly whistled, then nodded. "Dey've been clearin' the Yakavettas outtah New York for a year or so. Musta followed Concenzio down when he came intah town to take ovah fer Papa Joe."  
Murphy sighed. "The Yakavettas are ours."  
Greenly grinned. "Maybe dat's why dey're doin' it. Send you a message."  
Murphy rolled his eyes. "Looks like we're gonna get into a turf war, then."  
Greenly shrugged. "Holy wars're ovahrated. Yah could just leave the Yakavettas to 'em."  
"Not gonna happen," Murphy replied.

**

* * *

**

Angelus

Devin sighed, holstering her Taurus stainless steel 24/7 and rolling the mask up. She put a hand on her hip and watched Niamh pacing through the Boston apartment, keeping a watchful eye on the gun her sister swung around to accentuate her words.

"What th' fuck do they think they're doin'?" she raged.  
"We _are_ on their turf," Devin pointed out.  
"Fuck that! The Yakavettas are our fuckin' hit," Niamh snarled. "We've been handlin' them fer a year. The Saints've been workin', what, six months?"  
"But they took out Papa Joe," Devin said reasonably. "Obviously they think the Yakavettas are theirs."  
"We'll fuckin' show them," Niamh vowed.

The Angels stood in the midst of a bloodbath they hadn't perpetrated. In the center of the carnage sat a corpse in a chair, exactly like they had left Paolo Yakavetta for the Saints to find. Around the neck of Fabrizio Yakavetta, cousin of Concenzio and mob underboss, was a note.

_To the Angels, from the Saints with love._

"I'm gonna find those fucks an' kill 'em!" Niamh yelled, kicking over a chair.

Devin folded her arms and sighed, pain stabbing her heart. Here it was, the moment of truth. She'd been dreading this moment since the other day, when she made her discovery. It pained her that she had to do this so soon, but she had no choice.

"Nee, sit down, there's somethin' yeh gotta know," she choked out around the lump in her throat.  
"I'll stand," Niamh replied, pacing.

Devin gripped the back of Fabrizio's chair for support and sent a silent prayer for forgiveness for having to destroy her sister's happiness.

"I know who the Saints are."

Niamh stopped pacing, only to rush towards her sister. "Yer a genius, Dev! Who are they? When can we kill 'em?"  
Devin looked down at her gloved hands. "I'm sorry, Nee. Yer not gonna like it."  
"Jus' tell me," Niamh insisted.  
Devin closed her eyes and spoke quickly. "It's the MacManuses. Connor an' Murphy, an' their da."

There was silence for almost a full minute, an unheard-of occurrence when Niamh was involved. Devin opened her eyes and looked at her twin, who stood completely still, her green eyes opened in shock.

"Oh," she said blankly. Then she blinked and shrugged, her voice normal once more. "Well, tha' changes things. We should tell 'em we know who they are, be allies. Tha's really convenient, actually-"  
"Wait," Devin said, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Niamh, they're charlatans. They're fakes, remember? They weren't Called, they're killers. How are you alright with this?"  
"Devin Treasa MacCoy, fer shame!" Niamh chided her. "You know as well as I do that there's not an evil bone in their bodies. Even Murphy, fer all he's still a bastard. If the MacManuses are the Saints, you can be sure they're Called."

Devin watched warily as her twin gathered together the supplies they'd brought- ammo, a knife, rope [Devin still couldn't understand what Niamh thought she needed rope for; apparently it was something she'd picked up from Connor]. She bit her lip; she had a question to ask, but she wasn't sure if she wanted the answer.

"Niamh?" she said hesitantly. "Why'd ye lie ta me? About Murphy bein' dead?"

Niamh stiffened, and slowly stood, turning to face her sister. She might well be wary, Devin thought ruefully; since their argument that terrible night Murphy called it off [a night they never spoke of], they had never mentioned Niamh's betrayal again. The subject was always there but most studiously ignored, a veritable elephant in the living room. But since Devin had unmasked the Saints, she figured they might as well get this painful discussion out of the way, as well.

Niamh, upon realizing that Devin wasn't a towering inferno of blazing fury, and that she had no intention of arguing, visibly relaxed. Letting forth a sigh that seemed to come from her very soul, she sank onto a couch, burying her fingers in her hair.

"Oh Devin," she sighed. "We thought we were protectin' yeh, Ma an' I. We'd none of us heard from the boys in a year, an' then Cillian…" She trailed off as Devin flinched, shaking her head. "I was so angry at 'im. I thought 'e'd deserted yeh, an' I couldn't stand fer that. So I decided if he wanted ta run, I'd be sure he could never come crawlin' back."

Devin bit her lip, hating herself for the question she couldn't keep herself from asking. Why was she asking this? She was supposed to hate him. And yet…

"Did 'e… Did 'e ever try ta contact me?"  
Niamh shook her head, sympathy [but, thank God, not pity] in her eyes. "Not once."

She couldn't hide her flinch, despite how she bent her head. That thought killed her. Yes, Niamh had been wrong to lie to her. But Murphy, her supposed beloved, had never once tried to call or write? So much for true love.

The Saints might be legitimate, Devin begrudgingly admitted as she and Niamh left. But it hurt to know just how unfaithful Murphy was. She'd never willingly work with him.

**

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**

Omnis

Dominic Putinesca was holding a dinner meeting for the remaining bosses and underbosses of the Boston branch of the Yakavetta family. The mob bosses had been dropping like flies for the past three weeks, thanks to the so-called Saints of South Boston, and the plague of Concenzio's life, the Angels of New York. And Dominic didn't plan on standing for it any longer. He had been working as an assassin for the Yakavettas for twenty years, and he'd be damned if the family that had made him rich was brought down by these publicity-seeking animals.

What Dominic didn't know was that he had just served his guests their funeral meal.

They were all headed to the sunroom, to enjoy cigars and brandy and to discuss the best way to eliminate the Angels and the Saints. When they got there, they found two masked figures dressed in black waiting for them. Instantly, eight guns were trained on the intruders.

"Good evenin', gentlemen," the taller one said, her voice thick with an Irish brogue.  
Dominic stepped forward, a gun in each hand. "Well, well. Do I have the pleasure of welcoming the Angels or the Saints into my home?"  
The tall woman smiled behind her mask. "The Angels."  
"G'bye!" chirped the petite woman beside her.

And the firefight began.

Only a moment after the Angels opened fire, two more masked figures ran into the melee. It took the four killers only moments to kill the mobsters, until only Dominic was left alive.

"Back off!" one of the Saints screamed, aiming his Beretta at the Angels.  
The short Angel fired a round into the ceiling. "Back off yerself, ye fairy fuck!"  
"He's our kill!" the man insisted.  
"We got 'ere first!" she snarled.

Dominic took advantage of the assassins' yelling match to lunge for his pistol. He fired off a round, which lodged in one of his would-be killers' shoulders.

"Ya bastard!" the petite Angel yelled, rushing for her fallen comrade.

The Saints wasted no time in shooting Dominic through the head. The moment his body fell, the Angels and Saints had their guns trained on each other.

"So the Angels o' New York are in league with the mob," the Saint spoke again.  
"Oh, obviously," the petite Angel said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "We jus' shot 'em, o' _course_ we're workin' wit' the bastards."  
The Saint glared and took a step forward, aiming his gun. "Now see here-"

He got no farther, for the fallen Angel lunged to her feet and shot him through the arm.

"Talk to me sister like that again, and yeh'll have bullets in yer balls," she snarled.

The other Saint responded by shooting the injured Angel in the shoulder again, causing her to fall to the floor. And with that, the Angels and Saints opened fire on each other.

"Goddamnit, Connor an' Murphy, knock it the fuck off!" the petite Angel yelled.  
The talkative Saint paused, though he didn't lower his guns. "Niamh?"  
"Aye, it's us, Connor ya fool," Niamh panted, holding a hand over a shallow wound in her thigh. "An' if yeh'll stop pissin' me off long enough ta take me mask off, we can stop shootin' each other an' talk about this like civilized people."

The Angels and the Saints dropped their guns, then retreated to opposite sides of the room to assess the damage. Devin had shot Connor in the arm, and Niamh had gotten a couple shallow scratches on Murphy. Niamh had the wound in her thigh, and a more serious shot in her side. Devin had come out the worst of the four, with two shots in her left shoulder and another in the right arm.

"Fuck," Niamh muttered as she examined Devin, who lay on the floor panting weakly. "Dev, keep yer eyes open, damnit."  
"Fuck off, Nee," Devin said weakly, her gaze hazy and unfocused.  
"Connor, get me an iron!" Niamh snapped. "Murphy, get yer worthless ass over here an' carry Devin into the kitchen, she's fadin' fast."

Connor ran to heat the iron, while Murphy stumbled forward, sick at the realization that he'd shot the woman he loved. Somehow, he and Niamh got Devin onto the kitchen table, and they began the messy business of cauterizing their wounds and destroying evidence.

Eventually, the four all had bandages covering fresh burns. They limped out of Putinesca's house, Devin's arm slung around Connor's shoulders while Niamh helped her keep her balance, and stared at each other, speechless.

Murphy blinked, then looked at the other three, all as broken, bleeding, and bewildered as he. There was only one thing they could do now…

"Beer?" he innocently asked.

**

* * *

**[translations from translation-guide .com]

Guide to Latin

Sanctus: means "saints  
Angelus: means "angels"

**Guide to Guns** [from christiangunowner .com]

The girls sport Taurus Stainless Steel 24/7's. Originally I wanted them to have Glocks, but the Taurus is slightly less ugly. Still can't hold a candle to the boys' Berettas, though. Pity.


	9. Running Home

**Author's Note**: This chapter gives us a change of scenery, and kicks off one of the two sections of the story that takes place in Ireland. For the rest of the story, any time any of our four main characters needs to heal and regroup, it's a fairly safe bet that they'll be headed to Ireland. I'm not sure why that is; I don't control these characters.

My favorite part of this chapter is at the very end. Sometimes, I get hit with these amazing ideas. I have no idea where they come from, and I can never repeat them, but while they last I find them brilliant. This is one such moment. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I meant to have this out for St. Patrick's Day, but… eh, whatever, it's here now.

**Special Thanks**: Thanks to DemiTeaser, eXsTorDiNaRiLy InViSiBlE, , and Zadoc for your reviews!

**

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**

Amicitia

The party was somber for all of fifteen minutes. That's how long it took to get from Yakavetta's to the MacCoys' permanent hotel room, and for Niamh to ease an exhausted and heavily bandaged Devin into bed. After kissing her sister on the forehead, Niamh ushered a grave Connor and a frantic Murphy out the door.

"C'mon, let's go… no, she doesn't need us ta stay… no we will _not_ go ta the hospital… Murphy if ye don' knock it off I swear ta St. Patty I'll shoot ya where ye stand, now let's fuckin' _go_," Niamh said, her patience decreasing with every word.

It was another tense and awkward ten minutes' walk to McGinty's. Connor quietly took control of the walk, ushering Murphy to his right side and pulling Niamh to his left. It was done so smoothly that neither realized it had happened until Connor had wrapped his arm around Niamh's shoulders and stolen a cigarette from his brother.

"Tha' was nicely done," Murphy muttered, perfectly content to have a physical barrier between him and Devin's poisonous sister.

The three were uncharacteristically quiet as they sat around a circular bar table, and Connor signaled for three beers. Then, why they each had a chilly glass of liquid fortitude before them, it was time to talk.

"So. Yer the Angels o' New York," Connor said.  
Niamh nodded, folding her arms on the table. "Aye, an' yer the Saints o' South Boston."  
"How'd ye find out?" Connor asked.  
"Devin did some research," Niamh replied. "Broke 'er heart, it did. She's not as sure as I am that yer truly Called."  
"O' course we are!" Murphy exclaimed. "Would I'a left her if I wasn't?"  
"I dunno, would ye?" Niamh asked, fixing him with a steely gaze.  
"Aye, we were Called," Connor jumped in to diffuse that particular ticking time bomb. "In a jail cell, no less."

They told her about their family, how the MacManuses had been doing God's work for generations, the prayer that had been passed down from father to son. They told her about their Calling, the Russian mob soldiers they'd killed, their stay with the Boston Police Department, their tenure as Saints, their alliance with Smecker and the police. She listened intently, her eyes trained on her best friend.

"So, tha's us," Connor said. "Now it's yer turn."  
Niamh took a long swig of beer, then cleared her throat. "The women o' me family have been Angels fer generations. Our work was in Ireland, sometimes England. It wasn't s'posed ta be me and Devin who were Called. By rights, it belonged to Róisín and Gráinne. But after…" Niamh paused, biting her lip.  
"After what?" Connor asked, curiously urging her on.  
Niamh began again, slowly. "A year after ye left Carrick-On-Suir, Devin fell ill. Terribly ill. We were sure she would die."

She looked down as Murphy choked, his fist clenching so tightly around his glass that it shattered. As Connor rushed to mop up the spilled beer, Niamh looked up at Murphy as one of the many secrets of the past came to light.

"She… she was sick?" he choked out.  
She nodded. "Acute bronchitis. She didn't tell us; one day she jus'... collapsed. She was delirious for t'ree weeks, bedridden for a coupla months. But when she finally got healthy… We were at Mass when the Call came. 'Destroy that which is evil, so that which is good may flourish'."

The brothers glanced at each other as Niamh's gaze unfocused and nodded, conceding that God had indeed Called to the Angels.

"We came ta New York t'ree years ago," she said. "Devin's the one who the Lord speaks to, she said He told 'er our reward was waitin' in America. Course, if I'd'a known our reward was you, I woulda stayed home," she finished, an impish grin on her face.  
"Tha's why yeh've been comin' ta Boston, ta carry out hits," Connor realized.  
"Aye," she nodded. "This past year we've been cleanin' the Yakavettas off the East Coast. When Concenzio moved in after Papa Joe died, we followed 'im."  
"Ya know what I think?" Connor asked. "We should all team up ta get rid o' the bastards. It'd be easier'n tryin' ta kill each other."  
Niamh grinned. "I was about ta suggest the same thing."  
Murphy's quiet voice broke in. "Would Devin go fer it?"

There was a pause, and the blondes' smiles faded.

"Well… it was an awful thing yeh did to 'er," Niamh said.  
"I did it ta protect 'er," Murphy snapped. "Ye can't honestly tell me yeh'd prefer I make 'er the target of every enemy we have?"  
"Nay, I see now why ye did it, an' it makes a twisted sort o' sense," she grudgingly admitted. "I jus' can't predict what she'll 'ave ta say about it, is all. But whatever else, she wants ta take these fuckers out. So she'll agree ta joinin' forces."  
"A toast, then," Connor proposed, raising his glass. "To the Angels an' the Saints, an' to a long an' glorious union."  
"Slaínte," Niamh smiled as the three clinked glasses.

A few rounds later, and a bit of a row about possible future targets, and Murphy took off to inform Noah of the change of their fortunes, while Connor took Niamh back to her hotel. She tried the doorknob to the girls' room, then frowned.

"I dinna leave this locked," she muttered.

She fished around in her jeans pocket for her key, then opened the door and stared in confusion. The lights had been left on. The place was untidy, as if someone had left in a hurry.

And Devin was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh fuck," Niamh sighed.  
Connor plucked a folded piece of paper off the table. "It's fer you," he said, handing it to her.

Niamh opened it and read, trying to ignore how close Connor was as he read over her shoulder.

_Draodín-_

_I'm headed home for a spell. I need peace and quiet and good Irish air, and a chance to clear my head. Go back to Brooklyn and don't worry about me, I'll call when I'm coming back._

_I'll give Cillian your love._

_-Devin_

"Who the fuck is Cillian?" Connor asked.  
"Like fuck," Niamh muttered, ignoring his question.  
"What?" Connor asked.  
"She's runnin'," Niamh replied. "From Murphy, from what happened today."  
"Are we followin' 'er, then?" he asked.  
"Are ye daft? O' course we are," she said with no hesitation. "I've made enough mistakes by 'er, I'll not add more to the list."  
Connor nodded. "Alrigh'. Pack yer things while I make arrangements. Then we'll swing by me place an' pick up Murphy an' me da before we go ta the airport."

Two hours later saw them in the airport. A six hour flight later and they landed in Dublin. A two hour drive, and they were finally home.

The ten hours of waiting had done absolutely nothing for Niamh's patience or Murphy's worry. The barbs they'd thrown at each other had gotten so bad that Noah and Connor had eventually separated them, Noah taking Murphy to the back of the plane while Connor kept Niamh up front. They'd separated the squabbling loonies during the car ride, as well, desperately trying to keep some semblance of peace to preserve their own sanity.

Finally, they stood before the MacManus home, taking it in. The two and a half story farmhouse was painted a faded white, the house and land well-tended by the three boys still in Carrick-On-Suir.

"Home," Connor said with a deep sigh of contentment.  
"It's been a long time," Murphy said.  
"Aye," Noah said softly. "A very long time indeed."  
Niamh smirked. "Annabelle's gonna kill ye all. I can't wait ta watch."

She skipped inside, closely followed by Connor and Murphy. They found Annabelle sitting at the well-used wooden kitchen table with Aileen MacCoy, and Padriac, the fourth MacManus son.

"Niamh!" Aileen exclaimed, jumping up and crushing her youngest daughter in a hug. "I knew yeh'd be followin' Devin."  
"Where is she?" Niamh asked.  
"At home, asleep," Aileen answered. "That's a nasty burn on 'er shoulder."  
"I'll tell ye later," Niamh said.  
"Aye, and then it's straight ta the confessional with ye," Aileen nodded.

"Ma," Connor grinned, setting down his bag.  
"Ma!" Murphy exclaimed, dropping his duffle and rushing forward to hug her.  
"Me boys," Annabelle said, laughing and hugging them at the same time, then smacking them upside the head.  
"Jaysus, Ma!" Connor exclaimed.  
"What the fuck was that for?!" Murphy yelped.  
"Yeh ungrateful little pissants!" Annabelle exclaimed, smacking her sons on the chest and about the ears. "Ye shoulda been home long before this, ya bastards. Ya ruin yer ma's girlish figure and then ye break me poor 'eart. I should throw ye out on the street!"  
"We love ye too, Ma," Murphy grinned.

Annabelle probably would've continued on in this vein, but then Noah walked through the door and hung his hat on the peg that had long been empty. There was complete silence as Annabelle, Aileen and Padriac stared at the long-missing head of the MacManus clan.

"Hello, Annie," he said quietly.

Then came the explosion.

"'Hello, Annie'?! Is that all ya have ta say, ye fuckin' bastard?!" Annabelle yelled. "Ye left without a fuckin' word! Seventeen years yeh've been gone! Ya lef' me ta raise our boys on me own, an' ta run the house wit' no help from you, an' now yeh expect everythin' ta be forgiven because yeh say 'hello Annie'?! Jaysus fuckin' Christ!" she yelled, throwing an empty gin bottle at him.

Noah let it him, silently taking the abuse. He made no move, nor spoke a word in his defense, but there was a twinkle in his eye and something about the set of his mouth that suggested that he was amused.

When she was finished yelling [which took a good long while], Annabelle drew a deep breath and folded her arms, considering Noah. Everyone in the room, save him, held their breaths, wondering what Annabelle was about to do.

"Welcome home, Noah," she said in a perfectly rational voice, before going to put the kettle on for tea.

**

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**

Guide to the Latin

[translation from translation-guide .com]

Amicitia: means 'friends'

**Guide to the Illness** [information from healthcentral .com]

I googled severe respiratory illnesses to decide what Devin fell ill with all those years ago. Acute bronchitis starts out with similar symptoms to the flu, and may not cause trouble until the initial symptoms clear up. From what I read, it was plausible that if Devin ignored her symptoms, the acute bronchitis would worsen until she got to the state I said she was in- delirious for three weeks, dangerously high fever, near death, with a very long convalescence period.

**Guide to the Traveling** [information from wiki .answers .com and irishtourist .com]

I had no trouble figuring out how long it would take to get from Boston to Dublin. But I couldn't find anything about how long a trip it is from Dublin to County Tipperary, much less to Carrick-On-Suir. So I guessed.


	10. Confessions

**Author's Note**: I really, _really_ didn't want to write this chapter. Even though it's an important one for Devin and Murphy's story line [we'll return to Connor and Niamh later, I promise]. I've been dreading this chapter ever since I wrote the plot for this story- both because of what I had to do to Murphy, and because I had three or four different options for how to do it. I'm still not sure I like the way I wrote this chapter, but it was the option that made the most sense to me.

But I do like the last sentence. Back when I was still on quizilla, and writing _I'm a Loner in a Catastrophic Mind_ with my dear friend Sara, we used variations of that sentence quite a few times for the angsty effects. Good memories.

Also, I sincerely apologize for Murphy's flashback in this chapter. He acts like a grand master of creeperdom, and I really didn't mean for him to act like Edward Cullen. But neither he nor I could help ourselves. Please don't kill us for the creepiness.

Let's see, what else… oh. I'm kind of pleasantly surprised by the relationship between Devin and Padriac. The MacManus and MacCoy siblings are kind of just there, for the most part; I wasn't expecting any of them to play particularly important parts in this story. But I'm happy that Devin has a close tie with a MacManus man that isn't Murphy. I'm not sure why I like their interaction so much, but I really do. Whee!

**Disclaimer**: I've gotten several reviews asking when the Connor/Niamh storyline is going to pick up. Sorry to keep you waiting so long. I swear, it is coming; I didn't forget it. It's just temporarily on the back burner while Devin and Murphy angst. Be patient a little while longer and you will be rewarded, I swear on the boys' Berettas.

So I know that the plot twist I'm about to throw at you tends to be overdone, and not written very well. Forgive me; I kind of couldn't help myself. I did my best to work this subplot into previous chapters, so hopefully it's not coming out of nowhere.

**Special Thanks**: Thanks for the continued support, DemiTeazer, eXsTorDiNaRiLy InViSiBlE, Nindae, and You May Call Me Goddess- Bitch Goddess. I appreciate the ego-stroking. Kidding, kidding. But seriously, thanks for the reviews.

**

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**

Familia

Aileen, Niamh, Pádriac, Connor and Murphy shot each other silent, confused glances as Noah calmly sat at the head of the table and Annabelle prepared the tea.

"Well… that was anticlimactic," Padriac stated, running a hand through his brown hair and staring at his long-absent father.  
"Are ye home fer good, then?" Annabelle asked, doling out teacups.  
Noah cleared his throat, his fingers tracing the butterfly tattoo on his hand. "No. Not yet, mo chroí."  
"Hmph," she grunted, her displeasure clear. "Don't 'mo chroí' me, ya bastard. What the fuck's takin' ya so long?"  
"Annie, what th' fuck's wrong wit' ye?" Aileen asked incredulously. "Noah ran out on ye wit'out a word! How kin ye be so calm?"  
"'E didn' run out!" Annabelle scoffed. "Use yer head, Lee! Did ye never guess who the Naomh were?"  
Aileen gasped, staring at Noah. "No. You?"  
"Aye. Me 'n Sibeal," Noah nodded. "Then I was Called to America, an' Sibeal was told ta remain. An' what about you, Aileen? Whatever happened ta the Aingeals?"  
Aileen smiled ruefully. "Tis me daughters now. When Devin recovered from her illness an' got the Call, she said Caitlín an' I were allowed ta retire. That was ten years ago now."

Niamh stared into her tea as the conversation progressed, the words swirling around her head. The parallels of the situation weren't lost on her. Hadn't this conversation just taken place a month ago? But instead of Aileen and Annabelle discussing Noah and Sibeal, it had been Niamh accusing Murphy of running out, and Devin defending him. Were they all destined to repeat their parents' lives? God, she hoped not. But it seemed they hadn't learned from their parents' mistakes, either. Devin and Murphy were separated, just like Noah and Annabelle; Niamh's temper was more than equal to her mother's. That was… depressing.

"Soon, mo chuisle," Noah said to Annabelle. "Me work will be over soon. Especially now the boys've been Called-"  
"What?!" Annabelle shrieked, jumping out of her chair.  
Noah looked up at her. "Ye knew it would come, Annie-"  
"Like fuck I did!" she exclaimed, staring at her youngest sons.  
"Wait," Aileen said. "Yer tellin' me yer boys are Called? Like me girls?"  
"Aye," Noah nodded. "As our families have been called fer generations. An' if they'll stop behavin' like fools an' get their acts together, they kin all work together. One big happy family."  
"Saints preserve us," Annabelle muttered, crossing herself.  
"Aye, that's the idea," Murphy grinned.  
Annabelle shook her head. "Our boys, doin' God's work… The Almighty has a strange sense o' humor."  
"Hey!" the twins and Niamh exclaimed.  
"Aye, the Lord truly does work in mysterious ways," Pádriac nodded, smirking.  
"Amen, Father," Aileen said solemnly, a twinkle in her eye.  
"I don' hafta take this," Murphy said, standing. "I'm goin' fer a walk."  
"Right behind ya," Connor nodded, grabbing Niamh's hand as they dashed out after him.

After they left, the adults all shook their heads.

"Can't ye have a word wit' the Lord about them, Pádriac?" Aileen asked.  
"I doubt even the Almighty is powerful enough to overcome their stubbornness," Pádriac sighed.  
"I'm gonna have some choice words fer the Almighty, then," Annabelle grumbled.

**

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**

Aequitas

Connor and Murphy had always loved going to Mass. The rituals of the order of the mass and the prescribed sayings, the smells of incense and candle wax, the atmosphere, had always fascinated and comforted the twins. Even as restless children, then rebellious teenagers, they'd always been perfectly behaved in God's house; it had been one of Noah and Annabelle's earliest signs that their boys would be called to join in the family business. Now as adults and Saints, they clung to their faith as an anchor and a comfort, the light in their lives of shadow.

But today, in the parish where they'd been baptized and confirmed… surrounded by the ever-growing MacManus clan and the neighbors they'd known all their lives… their brother Pádriac saying Mass… today, for the first time ever, Murphy was completely unable to focus. And the reason for his distraction was in the pew on the other side of the aisle, on the side of the church that had for generations been MacCoy territory.

She was garbed in a modest black dress, a black sweater covering her arms and most of her tattoos. She knelt in the pew, next to her father, her deft fingers counting off rosary beads as she silently prayed. She was more beautiful than all the angels in heaven, and Murphy found himself worshipping her, rather than God. But he hadn't been smited with a lightning bolt for his blasphemy, so he took that as a sign that the Almighty approved, and contentedly went on adoring his goddess.

As Padriac began his homily about Paul's famous letter to the Romans, the one that spouted all that bullshit about love that he didn't want to think about right now, Murphy let his mind wander.

After they'd run out of the MacManus kitchen yesterday, Connor and Niamh had taken off for the River Suir, where they'd spent nearly all their free time together as youths. Being a wise man, Murphy had refused Connor's unspoken invitation to come along. The river was Connor and Niamh's place, and besides, eventually they had to figure out what everyone else knew.

But since he'd declined the invitation, there was no one to dissuade him from going to the place where he belonged.

He had to smile to himself as he walked down the lane to the MacCoy farm. Nothing had changed. The moonlight still hit the large white house and made it glow, creating brighter light and darker shadows than anywhere else on earth. The ancient fir tree still stood by the side of the house, and it was still easier than breathing to clamber up to the branch right under the second floor window, which as Providence would have it was open, just as he'd always remembered.

It had been creepy of him, but he hadn't been able to help himself. Neither when he was younger, or now. He would shimmy up the tree and slip into the room, just as he was doing now. The bed closest to the window was empty, but in his mind's eye Murphy saw a mop of messy golden red hair, and Niamh's limbs splayed every which way. She'd always been a deep sleeper; she'd never known that Murphy had spent nearly every night in the room with them [though there had been plenty of nights when Devin had snuck out, and they had spent the night outside].

He silently crossed to the far bed, and suddenly he was 17 again. His heart gave the familiar leap of excitement as his hand moved of its own will to caress Devin's silky cheek. He squatted by the bed and just stared at her, his heart aching for what he'd lost.

She had to hate him, he knew. He had made sure of it. And fuck, but did that thought hurt him. She was the only woman he'd ever loved; he'd spent ten years living like a monk and pining for her. And now he couldn't have her, because God had gotten in the way.

He'd once said that he would do anything, sacrifice everything, if God would only allow him to see Devin again, to talk to her once more. Looking back, that had been stupid. How could he possibly think that seeing her just once would satisfy his craving for her? If anything, it had only made it worse. He needed her with every fiber of his being, but he couldn't have her because God had pulled him away.

His face hardened as he stared at Devin's sleeping face. Yes, God had demanded that they not be together, that they give their lives to Him. But Murphy would be damned if he'd let God take her from him. He would never forget her, never stop loving her. He would fight evil in her name, live out his lonely and dangerous life for her. And even if she never knew the truth, even if she married another man and forgot all about him, he would know that everything had always been done for her.

He nodded to himself, an odd resignation filling him. He kissed Devin's forehead, then stood, turning to leave. Then Devin shifted in her sleep, and a soft sigh left her lips.

"Murphy."

It took him a moment to realize that she'd spoken, then a minute more to realize what she'd said. For an instant he panicked, not wanting her to know he was here, before her deep breathing convinced him that she was still asleep.

It only took him an instant to make up his mind.

He'd shed his jacket and boots, then carefully eased into bed behind her, into his place. He'd meant to just lay on his back, but his arm had reached out and and wrapped around her waist, and in an instant he was spooned around her, his arms securely holding her to him, and her fingers laced with his as though no time had passed at all, and he never wanted to move again.

He hadn't slept a wink; he wouldn't let himself. If this was to be the last time he ever held her, he didn't want to miss a moment of it. He'd left as the sky turned from black to gray, kissing her cheek one last time, imprinting her scent on his mind. Then he'd gone home, to stare at his claddagh until it was time for Mass.

And here he was, sitting through a mass that was nothing but torture. His only comfort was the fact that Connor seemed as agitated and distracted as he was. He couldn't wait to get out of here.

He nearly screamed in relief when Mass finally ended. He walked outside as quickly as he could without bowling people over, but in the yard before the church a scene played out before him that he immediately knew would torture him until he understood its mysteries.

Pádriac walked up to Devin, who looked up at him with a sad smile, shadows in her beautiful green eyes. He answered her smile with a warm, concerned one, his eyes asking questions that Murphy couldn't decipher. They looked like two people with a secret, and Murphy found himself irrationally [or perhaps understandably] jealous that Pádriac knew something about Devin that he didn't. Pádriac fingered Devin's rosary and looked at her caringly, asking her a question that Murphy couldn't hear from his vantage point. Her head bowed as she answered him, and she gripped the roasary tightly. He offered her his arm, asking another question, and she nodded, taking his arm. Pádriac drew her close, almost protectively hovering over her, and they began to walk up the hill towards the cemetery.

People who had witnessed this exchange looked after them compassionately, then shot not-so-covert glances at Murphy, as if weighing up his reaction to the mysterious scene.

"What the fuck's all that about?" Murphy muttered, staring after them.

Annabelle, having heard her son, glanced up at him, then followed his gaze. She lay a hand on his back and sighed; though she'd known this day would someday come, she still wished she could protect her baby boy from what he would have to go through, if he chose to follow Devin up the hill.

"Yeh'd best go after 'em, love," she said gravely. "It's time ya knew."

He didn't need any further encouragement. As he quickly made his way towards the hill, Annabelle heaved a great sigh and looked up at the heavens.

"God be wit' 'im," she murmured. "Help 'im bear the sorrow."

**

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**

Una

Devin and Pádriac took their time walking up the hill, enjoying the pretty walk. They were silent, which Devin was grateful for; words only ever got her in trouble, these days. Though she knew that if she wanted to talk, he would be the best person for that. Ten years ago, after her illness, it had been Pádriac who nurtured her and brought her back to something resembling emotional health. She'd kept in closest touch with Pádriac and Annabelle over the years, and only he knew absolutely everything about her. She'd told him things that she hadn't even shared with her twin, and he was very much her rock. He was a combination of friend, brother, confessor, and comforter. She didn't know what she would've done without him.

"Devin?" Pádriac asked gently. "What's troublin' ye, lass?"  
She smiled ruefully. "I'd hoped ta hide it from ye, Father."  
He shook his head. "I may not be able to see evil, like me brothers, but I kin read people's hearts, love," he said. "Besides, I know ya too well fer ye ta hide from me."  
Devin bit her lip hard. "It's just… I've been havin'… doubts," she confessed.  
"About God?" he probed.  
She nodded. "The Callin'."  
"Ah," Pádriac said slowly.  
She swallowed hard before continuing her confession. "I don' know if I kin do it any longer. I've already lost so much… Cillian dead, an' Murphy gone… How much more do I hafta give o' meself? An' why me? How could a lovin' God demand so much o' me? Am I ta be an Angel forever? Never get married, never have a family… I don' think I kin do it."

They reached Cillian's headstone in silence. As they sat before the gray stone, worn from ten years' worth of weather and tears, Pádriac spoke slowly.

"It isn't easy, the life yeh've been Called to," he said, holding her hand with the ease of long friendship. "And yer right, yeh've had ta sacrifice a lot ta fulfill yer Call. I suppose it's only natural that ye'd be questionin' yer faith. I can't pretend I have the answers, but I can tell ya this much. It's those who are the strongest that God gives the greatest challenges to."

He looked down, fingering the Fidelis tattoo on her hand.

"Yeh value fidelity over all things, Devin. Don' give up on God jus' yet. It's when things look the bleakest that He's closest to us; it's just that that's when He's hardest ta see. But I promise ye, He's there. All humans will disappoint ye, but He never will. He gave ya this Callin'. He knows yer strong enough to handle it."

That being said, he kissed her cheek and left her to be alone with the headstone, and the earthly remains that were hers to mourn.

Devin knelt before the grave marker, fingering the tattoo of Cillian's name that was nestled among the braid of the Celtic cross on her arm.

"Hóigh, mo leanbán," she whispered. "I'm here. Máthair's home again. I've missed you, mo saol."  
"Devin?"

She froze, whipping around to see Murphy striding towards her. Panic rose within her; she didn't want this, a macabre family reunion in the cemetery. But the panic was soon quelled by resignation. She was about to give up all ties to a normal human existence in order to fulfill her calling; maybe it was best to do it with no strings attatched, no secrets left unsaid.

"What're you doin' here?" he asked.  
"Sayin' goodbye," she replied.  
He furrowed his brow. "Huh?"

She turned to go, biting the corner of her lip. Murphy, gripped by a sudden determination, grabbed her arm. He didn't know what he wanted to say; he just knew he couldn't let her leave.

"Dev, about what I said, that night-" he said, his voice choked.  
A barely perceptible wince flitted across her face. "I don' wanna talk about it."  
"It wasn' coz I don' love you," he said, the words flying from him so quickly that they took on an unintended viciousness. "Don' you ever think tha'."

Whatever she was thinking, it didn't bode well for Murphy. She swallowed hard, somehow slipping from his grasp.

"Don't," she said thickly. "Ye were right, Murphy. We're different people now. Love, marriage, families… they can't be fer us. We were meant fer somethin' else, an' it's time I stopped fightin' it."

She reached up and unstrung a chain from her neck, then placed it in his hand.

"Slán, mo anam," she said softly, before walking down the hill, not once looking back.

He looked down at the chain, stunned to see Devin's claddagh gleaming in the sunlight. He looked up at the headstone, dazed…

And then his entire world shattered.

_Cillian Aiden MacManus  
__January 4, 2000 – June 17, 2000_

He fell to his knees and stared at the words cut into the stone, his heart confirming what his head failed to process. He leaned his head against his baby boy's headstone, and sobbed.

**

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****Notes about Names** [from behindthename .com]

Cillian: probably comes from the Gaelic word _ceall_, which means 'church  
'Aiden: anglicized version of Aodhán, a diminuitive of Aodh, which means 'fire'

**Notes about Gaelic** [translations from irishdictionary .ie/ dictionary and transexp .com]

Naomh: saints  
Aingeals: angels  
Leanbán: baby  
Saol: life  
Máthair: Mother  
Anam: soul  
Slán: goodbye


	11. Run Away

**Author's Note**: Well, first off, y'all are gonna be the ones to benefit from this hellaciously stressful next fortnight. I've promised myself that I'll post one chapter of this story for every project I get finished. I have five projects to finish, not counting the one I got done that constitutes this chapter going up. You can do the math as to how many chapters you'll be getting in the next two weeks.

Also, it's official: after this story ends, my BDS career will not be over. I have at least two one-shots that I'll be writing, probably more. Those will be posted in my not-really-a-story story _Disparate Chapters_. Woo!

This was a fun chapter to write, if very angsty and rather short. For some reason, I have a fascination with characters who run away from their issues instead of dealing with them [hence the chapter title]. I think I'm gonna blame my dear friend and fellow author Henderson for that; running away is her characters' trademark.

Every once in a while, I come up with a bit of prose that I fall in love with. That happened to me twice in this chapter. I love it when I give myself the shivers. Enjoy!

**Special Thanks**: Thanks to my beta [and partner in world domination] George for helping me decide Connor's reaction to what he does in this chapter. I'm glad George understands Connor, coz there are days when I really truly don't [ie, just about every day of the week].

Also, many thanks to Fire Black Dragon, 12345, eXsTorDiNaRiLy InViSiBlE, DemiTeaser, and You May Call Me Goddess- Bitch Goddess for the reviews. I'm glad y'all loved the angst. And I'm really glad you didn't think Murphy was a master creeper, that makes me feel better about myself.

**

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**

Aequitas

It was afternoon by the time Murphy had cried out the first of his shock, his complete and utter stunned amazement at the fact that he and Devin had had a child. A moment of mental arithmetic confirmed that Devin had been pregnant when he and Connor left Ireland. And he'd never known about his baby boy. That was what killed him, the hardest thing to bear; it was this knowledge that led to a feeling of betrayal. Devin had had their baby all to himself; she had never shared him with Murphy. He had no idea what his baby had been like. He'd never held his son, never looked in his eyes, never had any idea that his child had lived and breathed. All he knew was that his son was dead.

When his tears finally subsided, he merely sat before Cillian's grave, feeling himself turning to stone. God had taken him away from Devin, had taken their child away from them. If there was any clearer message of the Lord's intentions, he didn't know it. He and Devin might love each other, but they weren't meant to be together. There was no future for them; their Callings were to be their lives.

Very well then, Murphy thought resignedly. He would rip his heart out of his chest, turn into stone. No emotions, just pure reason. He would live for the job, and he would forget about the life he had spent a lifetime wanting.

But he would never forget Devin. And he would never forget the son he'd never known. And he defied God to order him differently.

He drew a deep breath, getting himself back into control. He sniffed, wiped his red eyes free of any more tears. When he felt calm enough, he stood and walked down the hill after a final glance at his son's grave, the resting place of all his dreams.

When he got back to the churchyard, he found his mother sitting on a bench beneath one of the oak trees, finishing off telling her rosary beads. She'd been sitting here, waiting and praying for him, he knew it without having to ask. She took one look at him, then stood, silently taking his arm and leading him to the street.

They didn't speak during the walk home, nor yet when Annabelle sat Murphy down and began fixing a pot of tea. Only when she'd handed him his mug and sat down with one of her own did she begin to speak.

"Devin hid 'er pregnancy fer as long as she could," she began. "She didn't want 'er family ta think yeh'd left 'er. She had faith that yeh'd be home soon, an' she could surprise ye wit' yer child. But the months passed wit'out a word from ye, an' Devin's belly grew too large ta hide."

Annabelle stood and walked into the living room, pulling an old, thick photo album off the shelf. Silently, she handed it to him. He opened it, and met his son.

"'E was the sweetest babe ever ta be born," she said gruffly, avoiding looking at the album for fear of crying. "The light o' our lives. Devin was so happy…"  
"What happened?" Murphy asked, barely able to speak, feasting his eyes on his child.  
"SIDS," Annabelle said bleakly. "'E was six months old. Devin was holdin' 'im, rockin' 'im ta sleep… 'e fell asleep, an' didn't wake up."

She wiped her eyes, sniffing before continuing.

"Devin didn't sleep or eat fer t'ree weeks. She jus' went on long walks alone. That musta been how she got sick, but we none of us knew it. Then one day… she collapsed. Fell down a flight o' stairs, scared 'er mother half ta death. The doctor came an' told us it was acute bronchitis. Aileen an' Padriac refused ta put 'er in the hospital- yeh know how it is fer outlaws, hospitals are more trouble'n they're worth. Yer brother came an' gave 'er Last Rites… we all thought we'd lose 'er, as well as the baby. Niamh was convinced that waitin' fer ye was killin' Devin… so they told 'er you were dead."

For a long moment, Murphy couldn't speak. He merely stared at a picture of Devin holding their son. She was smiling at the camera, and Cillian was laughing and holding his mother's hand. His family… and he hadn't been there when it fell apart.

Abruptly, he stood, taking the photo out of the album. He couldn't look at his mother; nor could he speak. He merely took his wife and son with him as he ran out the door.

**

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**

Parilitas

There was a spot on the bank of the River Suir. For a good five miles to each side of Carrick-On-Suir, the river passed through rocky hills and woods, with no real banks to speak of. But this place, this one spot hidden in a ravine, was different. There wasn't much room; only a little expanse of grass dotted with wildflowers, and a graceful willow whose branches dipped into the clear water. The place was still and quiet, as it was known only to a few birds, the occasional animal, and two humans who had named the spot Tearmann.

It wasn't quite so quiet now.

Niamh was curled up at the base of the willow tree, sobbing bitterly. She had seen Devin and Padriac go up to the cemetery, seen Murphy follow them. Sensing impending doom, Niamh had remained in the churchyard after her family had left, pacing and waiting. Devin had come back down not twenty minutes later, her face pale, shaken, and stony. From the look in her twin's dead emerald eyes, Niamh knew what had happened. Murphy had learned about Cillian, and Devin had let Murphy go.

The moment she'd seen Devin's face, a choking panic had begun to build in her chest, making its way up into her throat. Though she choked back the scream, she had taken off at a dead sprint, coming to this spot, this secret sanctuary she shared with Connor. She had thrown herself against the base of the tree, and dissolved into wild sobs.

Devin's agony and heartbreak was all Niamh's fault. If only Niamh hadn't been so blindly angry… if only she hadn't been so brash… none of this would have happened. If only she had trusted Devin, and kept her mouth shut, Devin and Murphy would be married right now, with children to ease the pain of Cillian's death. All she had wanted to do was live up to her fate, to fulfill her Calling and dispense justice on Murphy. But instead of justice, Niamh had only wreaked misery on the one she loved most.

If she messed things up so badly with people she loved and had known all her life, how could she possibly be trusted as an Angel? Was she not worthy for the life she led?

Even though she had come to Tearmann to be alone, deep in her subconscious she'd known he would follow her. So she didn't fight when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her, and she was pulled against a warm, solid chest.

"Easy, Bright Eyes," Connor murmured, resting his head on hers. "I gotcha, it's alrigh'."  
"'S'not," she whimpered, clinging to him and burying her face in his chest. "I've ruined everythin'."  
"Not possible, love," he soothed her, rocking them gently.  
"It is!" she insisted. "Dev and Murph, tis all my fault-"  
"They're as much ta blame as you," he said, running his fingers through her hair. "Don' cry about it, love, they'll work themselves out in God's own time."  
"Connor…" she whimpered.  
"Breathe, m'aer," he whispered.

Connor smoothed her hair off her face, using the pad of his thumb to gently brush away her tears. He bent down to kiss her cheek, but due to a sudden shift on Niamh's part he got her lips instead.

Their first kiss didn't feel strange or foreign; it felt as though this moment had long since been prepared for them, and now that it was here it felt like home.

His arms tightened around her. She pulled him closer. The kiss deepened, intensified. He moaned, plundering her mouth. She sighed, surrendering. He kissed her deeply, losing himself in the depths of the emotions he'd never known were there. She tangled her fingers in his hair, clinging to him, needing him to anchor her.

He crushed her to him, feeling as though she could never be close enough. He was proven wrong when she boldly straddled him, pressing them together. He groaned, an unmistakable reaction arising. One hand slid down her back, then squeezed her ass, pressing her even closer as the fingers of his other hand sifted through her hair, twining in the red-golden tresses.

It wasn't until his hand began sliding up her thigh that they realized what they were doing.

They froze, stared at each other. Hearts racing, neither breathing. He let out a shaky breath; she swallowed.

She stood and ran without saying a word.

**

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**

Veritas

Afternoon faded to twilight, and still Connor sat, unable to comprehend what had happened. He sat absolutely still, staring into space blankly.

What the fuck had happened? He couldn't really have been making out with his best friend, could he? Why the fuck had he… What the fuck… Fuck…

Connor wasn't blind; he knew full well how attractive Niamh was. She was a beautiful woman, and he was a healthy heterosexual man. He'd be lying if he said he'd never wondered…

But wait just a minute. This was _Niamh_ he was thinking about. His best friend since infancy, the woman he knew better than he knew himself. He had known her since she was soiling her diapers, had been there during the awkward phases of puberty, had seen her ugly duckling moments before she'd grown into her front teeth, when the freckles had taken over her face. When had he started thinking of her like this? There were rules about this sort of thing, and Connor was positive that Rule Number One was Thou Shalt Not Seducith Thy Best Friend. Underith Any Circumstances.

Connor groaned and rubbed his face. He had no idea what had just happened, but he was certain that a few fingers' worth of whiskey and a woman would fix it.

Two hours later saw him at his uncle Sibeal's bar, a glass of Jameson in one hand and an empty, charming smile on his face as he flirted with the woman whose name he didn't yet know, but was determined to forget Niamh with. He grinned, reaching out to tuck her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear, looking into her green eyes as he made his move.

Wait…

A series of images flashed through his mind, stopping him dead in his tracks. Red-gold hair sliding through his fingers… limbs quaking to his touch… soft lips moving in tandem with his… his blood surging at the sound of her soft sounds of pleasure… staring, stunned, into tumultuous emerald eyes…

Connor swallowed thickly and made his excuses, fleeing from the woman and berating himself. Of all the women in the bar, he had to hit on the one who looked like the woman he was trying to forget. What was wrong with him?

He spotted a head of tousseled dark hair in the corner booth and headed for his twin, relieved. Maybe his brother could talk him back into sanity…

One look at him reversed that thought. Murphy looked as horrible as Connor felt. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat beside him, and Murphy drank steadily but absently, all his attention focused on the picture he clutched in his inked hands as though it were the source of all life. He didn't look up as Connor sat beside him; he merely stared at the picture.

"I kissed Niamh," Connor stated blankly, helping himself to his brother's booze.  
"Devin an' I had a son," Murphy bleakly replied, still staring at Cillian's face. "He died."  
"Fuck," Connor sighed, clapping his brother on the back.

Neither MacManus brother said anything for the rest of the night. They merely sat together in the booth, each trying to drink away a MacCoy.

**

* * *

** [translations from freelang .net and irishgaelictranslator .com]

Guide to Language

Tearmann: Sanctuary  
M'aer: my air

**Additional Notes**: SIDS stands for Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. From the time Devin first revealed to me that she'd had a child, I knew he'd died from SIDS [because it's quick and painless- I may be angsty, but I'm not cruel enough to give a baby a painful death]. The only issue was getting the math right, working out the timeline so that not only was Devin pregnant when the boys left Ireland, but that she was also sick a year later.


	12. Keep Holding On

**Author's Note**: I have slain the massive beast that is my senior capstone paper! In complete and utter jubilation, I'm rewarding myself by posting this chapter for you.

Let me be the first to say that this is a filler. It's several pages of what I like to call 'mental acrobatics,' where characters have to work through emotional turmoil before they're in the right mindset to perform action. Just like in real life when this happens to me, I absolutely hate having to sit through my characters sifting through everything. But in this case, it seemed absolutely necessary to stop the action and let them catch their breaths. Enjoy!

**Special Thanks**: One of the things my beta George is most useful for is helping me understand Da and Connor. You laugh, but I'm not kidding. They're the two hardest characters for me to write, and I'm not sure why. Whenever I need a Da speech or a serious Connor moment, I always end up working it with George. He's the one that wrote Da's speech at the end of this chapter, and who helped me structure that scene. A million thanks and promises of an entire room for the bajillions of books he's got.

Many thanks to DemiTeaser, You May Call Me Goddess- Bitch Goddess, 12345 [aka Snoopy], and ExTorDiNaRiLy InViSiBlE for the reviews! Wow y'all reply fast. That makes me feel special.

**

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**

Cado Angelus

She woke up slowly, blinking groggily before burying her head in the pillow to protest daylight. Fuck, her head hurt… she really had to think about not drinking anymore. Fucking hangovers…

Sighing, she forced her body to move, sitting up in bed. Furrowing her brow, she blinked; this wasn't her room. What had happened last night? She slipped out of bed, pulling her clothes on as she tried to remember.

After the [stupid, meaningless, confusing, frustrating] kiss with Connor, Niamh had run home as quickly as her legs would take her. She had sprinted upstairs, ignoring her mother's startled questions, and burst into her bedroom. She'd needed her twin, needed to vent, needed to freak out and very likely cry. But the room had been empty, with no sign of Devin.

Without missing a beat, Niamh had sprinted back downstairs [ignoring her mother once again], grabbed the car keys, and driven herself to her favorite bar, next town over, where she'd proceeded to get incredibly drunk and hit on the first man she found even passably attractive [and she refused to dwell on the fact that he had blond hair, a knowing smirk, and deep blue eyes].

Which must be how she'd ended up here. Shrugging, Niamh pulled on her coat, barely sparing a glance for the man in the bed [whose name she didn't know, or at the very least didn't remember].

She walked back to the bar, retrieved her car, and drove home, resting her arm on the window and her head in her hand. Christ, a one-night stand had been a bad idea… She'd wanted to forget about Connor, not want him even more…

There was a simple way to sove this itch she had. And to be honest, Niamh had very few qualms about starting an affair with Connor. He was gorgeous, and she wasn't blind. The only thing really stopping her was the fear that sex would ruin their friendship. She'd gone a decade without him, she really didn't fancy losing him a second time. But on the other hand, the sexual tension was getting worse every time she was around him. Maybe it would be beneficial to cure that? There was really only one way to find out; she'd have to ask him the next time she saw him.

When Niamh got home and walked into the kitchen, she blinked upon seeing Devin sitting at the table, absently stirring a cup of what smelled like Lady Grey tea.

"Mornin'," she said, looking as though she hadn't slept a wink.  
"Where were ye, Trioblóid?" Niamh asked, sinking into a chair.  
"I spent the night at the rectory, wit' Pádriac," Devin replied, pouring Niamh tea. "Where were you?"  
"Slept wit' some stranger from a bar next town over," Niamh sighed, resting her head in her hand.  
"Why this time?" Devin asked, no condemnation or amusement in her voice.  
Niamh sighed heavily. "I kissed Connor yesterday."  
"Ah," Devin sighed, the sound seeming to come from the depths of her soul.

The sisters sat in silence for a long moment, each tired and numb. They didn't say anything else; they didn't need to. If anyone understood the boat that Niamh was in, it was Devin. What was it that made the MacCoy women lose their heads for the MacManus men?

"We hafta go back," Devin said in a voice barely above a whisper.  
"I know," Niamh replied, speaking just as quietly.

Neither said anymore, but in the silence they agreed with each other wholeheartedly. Their Calling had lost all vestige of holiness since the MacManus men walked back into their lives; what once had been a mission from God was now a burden and a punishment.

Yet, they knew without question that they would continue in their work. What choice did they have? They had forfeited all ties to the world in order to protect; there was no turning back. They hung suspended between heaven and earth, cut off from God and man both.

No one had told them being Angels would hurt this much.

**

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**

Vulnero Sanctus

He had spent 25 years in a maximum security prison, but Noah MacManus was quite certain that this was the longest week of his life.

It had been a week since he and his boys returned to Boston and got back to work. On the surface, it seemed things were back to normal; the Saints had plenty of work, the bodies piled up, the MacManuses went through their daily routines.

But the moment you looked closer, you saw what a sham that semblance of normality was.

The boys had barely spoken a word in the past seven days. Matter of fact, other than the jobs they'd pulled, Noah hardly saw his boys. Connor was constantly walking the streets, a scowl permanently etched on his face. Murphy, when he wasn't curled in bed staring into space, was at the church, clutching his rosary and the picture of his son. The only excursion he'd taken was to the tattoo parlor, where he'd had Cillian's name etched over his heart.

He'd known this moment would come; it had to. It was essential in the life of one of God's chosen; an initiation, of sorts. If you found the strength to keep faith through the hour of darkness, it made the light that much brighter. Noah had had to endure this period of doubt and despair, and now, it seemed, it was his sons' turn.

Noah was a patient man. He knew he _could_ wait until his boys came to him, that he _could_ let them struggle in the darkness until they came to him for help. But it would kill him to wait. He was a Saint, yes, but a father first and foremost, and it killed him to see his boys in such pain. He didn't want to sit back and let his boys suffer, but he knew full well that he couldn't rush his boys' journeys. They had to grapple with the darkness on their own, or the entire journey was meaningless. He had comfort and strength to offer them, but it couldn't be given until the twins reached for it.

So Noah waited, holding silent vigil for a week until suddenly one night, the moment appeared.

There were no signs that Connor and Murphy had spoken beforehand before coming to their da. Murphy had appeared first, face pale and eyes rimmed with red. He said not a word; he just sat on the couch, one hand clutching the rosary around his neck. Connor walked in several minutes later, bringing the cold November air with him. Silently, he sat next to his brother, and as one they turned their eyes- Annabelle's blue eyes- on him.

"How long, Da?" Connor asked, his voice aged beyond his years and weighted with pain and sorrow. "How long is this gonna go on?"

For a long moment, Noah was silent, smoking his cigar and praying for guidance, asking for the right words. Finally, he began to speak, his voice quiet but his words a loud shout in the black void his sons were struggling through.

"Do ye remember what I said t'ye, when this all started?" he asked.

He didn't repeat his words from that night; he didn't need to. The words were burned into all of their brains.

_The question is not how far. The question is, do you possess the constitution, the depth of faith, to go as far as is needed?_

"Ye boys have always known that de path we've been Called to is not an easy one," Noah said, thoughtfully rolling his cigar between his fingers. "Yeh asked me these questions before, when we started down dis path. The length of the path has never been the question, though ye now begin ta understand how long it truly is. We travel dis path, t'rough the pain an' the doubt, to strengthen us for what's to come. God has His own good plan for ye. And though ye now walk in darkness, His light will shine on you soon enough. All ye need do is hold tight to yer faith, an' believe."

Connor leaned back, some of the despair lifting from his face as he contemplated Noah's words. Murphy's face, however, twisted into an angry scowl.

"Why? Why would God take everythin' from us? Is He tryin' ta break us?" he asked, a wild and deep pain evident in his voice.

Noah contained a wince, barely. He had been anticipating this question from his youngest son, from whom so much had been taken. As he pondered how to answer Murphy, words from his son Padriac's homily unexpectedly floated into his brain. He took another puff of his cigar, forming his answer carefully.

"Ye were in church when Padriac gave homily," he said slowly. "Even Jaysus was tested. He got on his knees an' begged 'is Father, asking fer the Cup ta pass 'im by. But did it?"

Murphy's head bowed, his eyes closing in pain and acceptance. Noah laid a hand on his son's shoulder, wishing there was more he could do. But the darkness had to be faced, and nothing he did could take that challenge from his boys. All he could do was stand by them and promise them that it was always darkest before the dawn.

**

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**

Guide to Latin

[translations from tranexp .com]

Cado Angelus: 'fallen angels'  
Vulnero Sanctus: 'injured saints'

**Note on Homily**: Traditionally, the homily about Jesus in Gethsemene, asking for the cup to pass him by, would be spoken around Easter, not in November. As a lapsed Catholic, I know this. However, George and I both agreed that that image needed to be used. Hence the anachronistic homily. Do forgive me for the artistic license.


	13. Perfection

**Author's Note:** Oh this chapter was fun to write. I dedicated the entire thing to Niamh and Connor because (a) there's only so much Devin/Murphy angsting I can do at this point; that situation's pretty much stagnated and (b) I consider this chapter to be comic relief [which probably says something about me]. Originally, this entire chapter was going to be condensed down to one POV, and then we'd move on to the next bit of action. However… Well, the next chapter is really dark and sad [why yes this is advanced warning, thank you so much for noticing]. So I wanted to focus on this first.

Niamh's first POV is actually inspired by a scene for a story I wrote a couple of years ago. I didn't realize it until about halfway through, but it amused me when I figured out why the scenario seemed so familiar, and then I intentionally made the rest of the POV follow that other scene. Because I really loved that scene, and hey, if the formula works…

**Disclaimer:** Check the end of the chapter for my disclaimer and PSA; I don't want to spoil the chapter for you by defending what's going on.

**Special Thanks:** Thanks to eXsTorDiNaRiLy InViSiBlE, Bitch Goddess, DemiTeaser, and Snoopy for the reviews. It's nice to know that even though the last chapter was a filler it wasn't a waste of time. I promise I'm going to start resolving all the angst! …Soon.

**

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**

Parilitas

Niamh paced through the living room, hands folded behind her back, her bare toes digging into the plush carpet. Back and forth… back and forth… walking from one side of the room to the other as her mind vascillated to and fro.

It had been so much easier to contemplate a physical relationship with Connor when it was only a hypothetical. She'd spent the entire month since coming home from Ireland obsessively thinking over her proposition, working through every possible complication. She'd thought it through so much that she'd thought she was completely comfortable with it.

It wasn't until now, when she tried to call him, that she realized how thoroughly she'd deluded herself.

She'd picked up the phone a dozen times, only to set it back in the cradle without dialing. Whenever she tried to practice what she wanted to say, her throat would constrict, the words choking her. She was terrified, and that irritated the living hell out of her.

Why was she so nervous? It was only Connor after all; her best friend since they were infants. He knew her better than anyone else in the world; there was no one she trusted more [except for Devin, of course]. If she was going to have an affair, who better than Connor to have it with?

But… This was _Connor_. They'd been friends since he was born [she and Dev were two months older than Con and Murph], and she'd _never_ until now had even the faintest desire to sleep with him. Should she really be doing this? What if, by satisfying a temporary desire, she destroyed their friendship? Maybe this wasn't worth it.

But… Regardless of where or when it had begun, she did want him. Every time she saw him, the craving only got worse, blocking out everything else and making it impossible to think. Maybe an affair was necessary, if only for her sanity and for the sake of their 'professional relationship.'

But… What if he said no? What if he didn't want her? What if, by even mentioning her desires, she made things weird between them? God, that'd be even worse than if sex ruined it all…

Niamh groaned. It appeared that she had no choice; any way she looked at it, their friendship was doomed to change. If that was the case, she might as well just sleep with him; she might as well get something good out of the crash and burn that was coming.

Involuntarily, her hand shot out to the phone, and her fingers punched in the number she'd long since memorized. The harsh sound of the dial tone nearly sapped away all of her reserve, but then a warm male voice laced with the brogue of home filled her ear, warming her more quickly than three fingers of whiskey and sending a shot of pure awareness down her spine.

"Manny, it's me. I'm gonna be in Boston in a few days, can ye meet me fer dinner? I've a proposition for ya…"

**

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**

Veritas

He hung up the phone numbly, and then he just sat there, unable to do anything but gape, his mind trying frantically to figure out what the hell had just happened.

If he remembered right, he had just agreed to sleep with his best friend. But… What?!

Niamh had completely floored him when she made her 'proposition,' as she called it. He would've thought this was all a huge joke, were it not for the tone in her voice. She'd sounded sure of herself and carefree, but she'd been dead serious.

She wanted him.

And he'd said okay.

He would have asked 'what the hell was I thinking?!' but he knew for a fact that he _hadn't_ been thinking; his agreement had flown out of his mouth before his conscious mind had emerged from its state of catatonic shock.

And now, for the first time in his life, Connor MacManus was completely flabberghasted.

Socrates once laid forth the axiom of Know Thyself. For Connor, who valued truth above all virtues, this axiom was absolutely essential to the way he viewed the world. He was unable to lie to himself, so it was time to have a very serious discussion with himself.

He wanted to sleep with his best friend?

His conscious mind rebelled against the idea. There were rules about this kind of thing; Thou Shalt Not Fuck The Girl If Thou Sawest Her Braces-And-Training-Bra Phasith. This was _Niamh_ he was talking about; he'd grown up with the girl, and had never until now wanted to sleep with her.

And yet, he had immediately agreed to her proposition. Meaning, he wanted her, and it couldn't be a recent desire or his answer would have come more slowly.

So… he wanted Niamh.

What would it do to their friendship, if they proceeded on this course? Surely, adding sex to what they already had could be a recipe for disaster. It could destroy everything…

But what if it didn't? What if sleeping with her did the opposite of tearing them apart? What if it worked?

God, what happened if it worked? If the sex was amazing, if he couldn't get enough of her? What if he started wanting more, if they formed a deeper relationship? What if he found himself facing the same choice as Murphy? What if he had to make Murphy's decision, and let her go to protect her?

_Whoa, slow the fuck down_, he counseled himself. One date didn't mean marriage; one fuck did not condemn him to his brother's fate. He was overthinking, and that needed to stop. He needed to relax, not blow it out of proportion. He would go one step at a time, and he would not make Murphy's mistakes.

**

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**

Congressus

They met at No. 9 Park, a well-known restaurant popular with first dates and business meals, neither acknowledging the tension that hung thick in the air. They spoke of their time in Ireland, of hits the Angels and Saints had conducted, of how miserable Devin and Murphy were. They spoke of everything, in fact, but the reason they were there.

Their conversation lasted all the way through dinner, until they got outside; just because they were on a date [was it a date?] didn't mean they suddenly forgot how to have a good time together. They took their time after leaving the restaurant, stopping at a coffee shop, admiring window displays. If they focused hard enough, they could pretend that this was just like any other visit, that Connor was merely walking Niamh back to her permanently ready hotel room.

They walked up the stairs to Niamh's room silently, anticipation rising, tension thick in the air. Her hands were surprisingly steady as she unlocked the door; he followed her closely, closing the door behind them.

They stood there a moment, on the threshold, each unsure whether to proceed or retreat. They locked eyes, and attraction leapt, burning away indecision. Her hands moved to his peacoat, slipping the buttons through the holes, sliding the wool off his shoulders, hearing the muted thump of the coat on the ground as her fingers delicately trailed up his arms, feeling the muscles tense beneath his shirt. He eased her coat off, sliding his hands down her back, his eyes burning into hers as he leaned forward and caught her lips.

After that, it was easy.

Shedding clothes as he guided her back to the bed.

Lips fused, tongues dueling.

Fingers exploring territory previously thought familiar, making new and delightful discoveries.

His weight trapping her, pinning her to the mattress.

Her fingers burying in his hair, daring him to break away.

The kiss more urgent now, fueled by a long-hidden passion.

A shift on her part, a smooth movement from him, a long-empty void filled.

Movements more urgent now, exploration intensifying to a fever pitch, pushing for a climax that felt like Heaven.

The all-too-quick return to earth…

The urge to find Heaven again…

And again…

And yet again.

They collapsed into each other, utterly spent. Without thinking, his arms wrapped around her, drawing her close. She relaxed, melting into him as their fingers linked together.

She fell asleep like that, a contented smile on her face. How could she have feared this? How could she be afraid of something this wonderful? How could she be worried about ruining it all when she'd just come home?

He held her, watching her slumber, envying her peace. He was absolutely panicked. This felt too good, too right. He'd just come home, but he knew better than most that perfection never lasted. He wanted to flee, to save them both from the heartbreak that was sure to follow, but all he could do was close his eyes and hold her, joining her in the beautiful oblivion.

**

* * *

****Guide to Latin** [translation from tranexp. com]

Congressus: 'encounter'

**Guide to Restaurant** [information from calendar. boston. com]

Yes, No. 9 Park is a real restaurant. Yes, it is popular for romantic dates and business lunches. Yes, you can google it. Yes, you can thank me if you take your s/o there, propose, and they say yes. :]

**Disclaimer and PSA**: Alright. I am not now nor will I ever promote unprotected sex. My characters live in a fantasy world, and as their Author I have full control over whether they do or do not get pregnant or catch an STD. In case you haven't noticed, the real world doesn't work like that. Don't you dare go out and have unprotected sex and then try to blame me for it. Always protect yourself.


	14. Surrender

**Author's Note**: Y'know, I got another project done [hence the chapter posting], but I'm wondering if it's worth it to post this chapter. I hope you weren't thinking this would be a happy chapter...

Back in July, my beta George and I came up with a revised plot for this story, from about this point on to the end. Ever since then, I've been simultaneously dreading and eagerly anticipating writing this chapter. I knew it was going to be the crisis point of the story, the turning point that determines everything else that happens. As if that wasn't intimidating enough, I knew this chapter would be incredibly angsty. Now, I love angst, I think I've made that perfectly clear. But there are certain things I hate doing to my characters, and this is one of them.

Before you try to kill me for ending it on a cliffhanger, know that Devin has already threatened to kill me multiple times for what I'm about to unleash, and also know that I have a good deal of story left, so things will get better. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I reset this story's rating to T. I originally rated it M for the violence, sexual situations, and swearing, but upon looking back I realized it really wasn't as bad as I previously thought.

**Special Thanks**: Thanks to eXsTorDiNaRiLy InViSiBlE and Bitch Goddess for your reviews. You're both very welcome for the Connor/Niamh smut and yes, there will be more to come.

**

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**

Omnis

They had been persuing him for months, ever since he left the jurisdiction of the Angels of New York and entered the territory of the Saints of South Boston. They had tracked him, in opposition at first, now together, each kill bringing them closer to this day.

Today was the day that Concenzio Yakavetta would meet his Maker.

It was the elder MacManus who'd organized everything, acting as liason between the fractured partnership of Angels and Saints. Devin had gone to Mass, and come back with news that she stated was God-given, though she'd heard it from a parishioner- Yakavetta was hosting a party at his mansion in three weeks' time. Upon this revelation from their oracle, the group sprang into action.

The plan was ingeniously and elegantly simple. Devin and Niamh would enter through the front door, posing as 'entertainment.' Connor, Murphy and Noah would come through the back as 'laborers' setting up tables and equipment. They'd do what they did best, meeting in the middle of the mansion and going after Yakavetta together, leaving all their trademark signatures on him to send a message to criminals and the justice system alike.

They'd spent three weeks ruthlessly working on the plan, massaging every detail. They'd pulled in all of their contacts and allies; the Boston Police Department would be on hand to spirit them out if necessary, with Smecker manipulating the FBI if they needed to disappear for a while. They even had the protection of the Church, Padriac MacManus persuading his brothers of the cloth to aid them if they needed sanctuary.

Certain compromises had to be made in the midst of all of this- for instance, Connor was none too pleased at the thought of other men ogling Niamh [necessitating that she be in a trench coat when she walked through the door], and Murphy quietly panicked at the thought of Devin with only one gun [a problem solved by the simple expedient of her hiding numerous small knives on her person]. But finally, all was in readiness.

They had spent innumerable hours planning, preparing, waiting for this moment. Yet, now that it was here, it didn't seem real. Then again, nothing really seemed real to the warriors anymore. All four of them were numb and disillusioned. Their Calling was no longer a mission from God; it was a punishment from Hell. They kept at it for one reason- they were lost souls and this was their only chance at redemption and purpose. Had you asked any of them, they would have given up their Calling in a heartbeat.

They had long since agreed that each of them would spend the night before this most important of missions preparing in whatever way he or she thought best. Connor and Niamh were locked in his room, losing themselves to the simple pleasures. Devin had gone to the church to spend a long night in silent prayer, while Murphy went to the boys' preferred munitions dealer to make the second-most important purchase of his life [after the claddagh rings he'd once bought himself and Devin] and Noah went for a stroll on the Harborwalk.

Finally, it was time.

They all left together, in an unmarked van leant to them by Boston's finest. They didn't speak as Connor drove them to Yakavetta's mansion, each entirely focused on what lay ahead.

He parked the van, and they looked at each other silently, the gravity of what they were doing fully hitting home. This was possibly the most important hit any of them had made; by killing Concenzio they would shut down a massive branch of crime on the entire East Coast. The importance of what they were doing today didn't escape them, and they all cast about for something appropriate to say as they began their mission.

It was Da who broke the silence. "And shepards we shall be…"

They all joined in the prayer quietly, Devin and Niamh having been taught the words to the MacManus family prayer by Noah in the past three weeks.

When they finished, it was Devin's turn. "When I raise my flashing sword…"

Niamh joined in; the boys followed her lead haltingly, not as familiar with the Angels' battle prayer as the Angels were with theirs. When they finished, they all looked at each other gravely, unsure of how to take leave of each other.

"Be careful, all o' ye," Noah said, before opening the door.

As the boys walked out and headed towards the backyard, Noah pulled Devin aside, handing her a small wooden box.

"This'll serve ye better than that .22," he said softly.

She opened the box, then stared at the Browning .25 pistol that lay nestled inside. She pulled it out, testing its weight in her hand. She looked up to ask Noah where he'd gotten it, but a small engraving on the handle answered all her questions. She ran her fingers across the shamrock, her throat tightening as she nodded, understanding Murphy's silent plea that she be careful. Stowing the gun in her purse, she drew a breath and took off.

Twenty feet and a million miles away, Connor and Niamh stared at each other, unsure how to say goodbye. They'd each tried at least twice to say something, but at the last had been reduced merely to staring at each other, drinking in each others' faces. How did they acknowledge what was beginning, what could happen to them before that beginning flowered to its full potential, without saying the cursed word 'goodbye'? Connor settled for kissing her, hard and fast, before striding off, swallowing hard to keep from showing emotions he couldn't afford to feel.

What had been happening between the two of them for the past three weeks had been terribly perfect, frighteningly easy, and profoundly confusing. The simple physical affair was changing him, changing her, changing them, into something neither was sure they could be. But all of that had to be put on hold now, because the Angels and Saints had work to do.

It was frighteningly easy, once they'd begun. A few bullets and the guards were dead, and it was time for the main event. They climbed the stairs together, entered the second floor study.

And then it all went to hell.

They were ambushed by Concenzio's captains. For a few moments, it was absolute chaos as bullets flew, blood poured, and bodies fell.

And then…

"_Devin_!"

He sprinted towards her, eyes wide with terror. Time seemed to slow down; he was terrified he wouldn't get to her in time.

BANG

Murphy fell to the floor, his body shielding hers from a hail of bullets as he leveled his Beretta and shot the bastard who'd meant to shoot Devin in the back. She rolled him onto his back, a horrified look crossing her face when her fingers came away slick with blood.

"Murphy!"

He was dimly aware of his brother screaming, his father ending the firefight with ruthless efficiency before he, Connor and Niamh shot Concenzio dead. But most of all, he saw Devin, tears pouring from her emerald eyes as her deft fingers worked frantically to save him, tying off first a previously unnoticed gunshot in his hip before turning to the one in his left shoulder.

"Devin," he said hoarsely, each breath causing the fire in his chest to rage hotter, each labored beat of his heart pumping more lifeblood out of him.  
"Hold still," she commanded, applying more pressure to the makeshift bandages she'd made out of her trench coat.  
"Devin," he said again, more urgently, grabbing her hands to stop her.  
"Why?" she asked, her voice choked with tears as she clutched his hands. "Why the fuck did ya do that, ye fuckin' idiot?!"  
"Because," he said, restraining her hands again as she weakly hit him. "I love ye."  
"I love ye too," she whispered.

In a moment she was in his arms, sobbing as she rested her head on his chest, unable to ignore the gaping wound in his left shoulder, the dark blood staining his left hip. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her as close as he could, ignoring how that increased the burning pain in his shoulder. Fuck his injuries, nothing would tear her away from him.

It was in these moments that everything became clear to him- his life, his tenure as a Saint, his purpose. It was all meaningless if he did it merely to protect the masses; 'the masses' had no names or souls, 'the masses' was just an idea, and ideas weren't worth dying for. But everything made sense if he fought for Devin, if he killed evil men so he was free to love her, if by killing them he made a better world for her. Cliché perhaps, to be fighting for love, but breathtakingly clear and utterly true.

"Devin," he whispered. "Take me home. Bury me at home."  
She shook her head fiercely. "Don' ye fuckin' dare say yer goodbyes ta me, Murphy Diarmuid MacManus!"  
He reached into his pocket, pulling out his good luck talisman. "Wear this fer me," he struggled to say, sliding her claddagh ring onto its proper finger.  
"No," she whimpered, clinging to him, trying to keep him with her. "Murphy, no… please? Don' leave me…"

He heard Niamh snapping into her phone, heard Connor panicking and Noah praying, but all he focused on was Devin's face.

"Tá mé chomh doirte sin duit, Mo Chroí," he whispered. "Cillian an' I'll be waitin'."

A soft white light was pulling at him, calling him home. It slowly overtook his faculties, drawing him away from the pain of the gunshot, the grief of his loved ones. He smiled faintly; this wasn't so bad. Sighing, he closed his eyes, surrendering to the light.

**

* * *

****Guide to Gaelic** [translation from irishdictionary .ie]

Tá mé chomh doirte sin duit, Mo Chroí: 'I love you so much, My Heart'

**Note About Weapon: **Murphy and I fought long and hard over what gun he got for Devin. Here's a rough transcription of our argument:

'she can't have a .22, it's too fuckin' small!  
''it has to be a tiny gun! It has to fit in her pocket!'  
'It's fuckin' birdshot!'  
'It works for her, doesn't it?!'

We finally settled on a .25 cal Browning pistol, and compromised by working together to create those last few angsty paragraphs.


	15. It's Not Over

**Author's Note**: First off, I'm sorry for the last chapter. I know I committed one of the great sins of fanfiction by showing a hot male protagonist the evil white light. I offer up the next couple chapters as an apology for that. I'll try not to get so carried away with my angst again.

Merlin, this chapter was hard to write. I thought I knew what I wanted to do, but I got maybe halfway through the chapter, took one look at what I'd written, and said, "Nope." Take two went much, much better. Especially Connor's POV at the end; I absolutely adore it. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: This is apparently the chapter where I'm paying homage to the sequel like whoa. Both the first and the last POVs are inspired by scenes from BDS2. I maketh no money from this, sueith me not!

Also, sorry about the Secondhand Serenade-inspired chapter title. I don't have an excuse for my emoness.

**Special Thanks**: A million and one thanks to my beta George for helping me to bash out what to do with this chapter. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't understand Da or Connor at all.

Thanks to Snoopy, Bitch Goddess, and eXsTorDiNaRiLy InViSiBlE for the reviews and continued support. Sorry for the shock and near-tears.

**

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**

Haven

He sat at the bar, smoking contentedly, focusing on nothing at all. Only the gentle _clink_ of a bottle and two glasses being set down broke him from his silent trance. He looked up, smiling faintly at the bearded, shaggy-haired man who stood before him, lighting a cigarette as he set a small toddler on the counter.

Murphy immediately trained all his focus on the baby boy who innocently sat on the counter, playing with his blocks. Fine, dark brown hair covered his head, sweeping across his forehead which was furrowed in concentration as he stacked the blocks on top of each other. He looked up at Murphy and raised his arms, an unbelievably adorable grin spreading across his face. Swallowing hard, Murphy scooped his son into his arms, holding him close and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Cillian squirmed in his father's arms, getting more comfortable before closing his piercing blue eyes and cuddling into his da. Murphy clung to him, an unknown hole in his heart filling.

Murphy looked up at the man behind the bar, sighing. "Ya look good, Roc."  
Rocco smirked faintly. "You don't."

Leaning against the bar, he proceeded to silently pour them each two fingers' worth of whiskey, pushing one glass to Murphy. For a long moment they drank in silence, Murphy cradling his little boy to him.

"Ya did good, though," Rocco eventually said. "Did the big man proud."  
"He has a helluva way o' showin' it," Murphy grumbled. "Takin' a normal life away from me… takin' Devin away…"  
"Hey," Rocco said. "Don't you get it by now, you stupid fuckin' mick? He's showin' ya that anything worth having, ya gotta fuckin' fight for."

He considered that for a long moment as he lit another cigarette. Was it really that simple? Had God merely been testing his reserve? Fuck, if that was the case… if there was a chance he could have Devin back… he'd fight all the forces of Heaven and Hell for her.

"You got a choice now, though," Rocco said. "Technically, you've done what you were put on earth to do. You could stay here, with me and the kid. Or you could go back, and fight for her."

He paused, setting down his cigarette as he stared down at his son, who'd fallen asleep in his arms. It was tempting, really, to stay here. He and Roc were sure to have a blast wreaking havoc in Heaven, and he could hold his child for the rest of eternity. He'd earned this; he _wanted_ this.

But… Roc had said he could be with Devin. He was only 28 years old, why would he willingly toss away long decades of a life on earth? Unbidden, images of the life he'd imagined for them floated into his consciousness. Devin on the threshold of their home… and there would be many children, all beautiful, all perfect… they could grow old together, and unlike his father he wouldn't miss anything…

"I have ta go back, Roc," he said softly.

He knew it was the right decision. But God, did it kill him to say it. How could he willingly leave Heaven? How could he walk away from his baby boy?

Rocco seemed to sense this, because he smiled. "Don't worry about the kid. He's fine here. But Devin… she needs you."

Murphy nodded, pressing one last kiss to his boy's head. Someday, he would return to Heaven, this time for good. But until then, he belonged on earth, with Devin. Reluctantly, he handed Cillian to Rocco before allowing the white light to take him again.

**

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**

Aequitas

It took a long time to hook back up with his body. Funny, how heavy he felt now; he'd always thought he was quite a lightweight. And fucking Christ in Heaven, did his body hurt. His shoulder radiated pain throughout his entire arm and chest, and what areas weren't affected by his shoulder hurt because of his hip. He knew that being a criminal meant that official medical help wasn't an option for them because there was too great a risk of the doctors calling the police, but good lord! Why hadn't any of the MacManuses or MacCoys gone through medical school? It'd be much preferable to the makeshift surgeries the Saints had had to perform on each other.

Finally, after an endless eternity in the dark, his eyelids remembered how to open. Groaning softly through the haze of pain and fuzziness, he forced himself to focus, to reorient himself to earth.

The room was dark; all the lights turned off save the bedside lamp, the drapes pulled over the window. And the house was quieter than he'd ever heard it, as if everyone and everything were holding their breath, waiting to know if he would live or die.

With a tiny groan, he turned his head to take in the figure that sat in a chair by his bed. "Ma?" he asked, his voice hoarse and scratchy from disuse.

Annabelle's head shot up, allowing Murphy to see that her fingers clutched her worn, wooden rosary. Her eyes were red from crying and lack of sleep, her clothes rumpled as though she hadn't left his side once- which, knowing his mother, she probably hadn't.

"Murphy! Oh thank God," she sighed, her voice rougher than usual from hard crying and no sleep.

He lay his head on her shoulder as she hugged him, but in the next moment-

_SMACK_

"Ow!" he yelped as she smacked him upside the head. "Christ, Ma, what the fuck?"  
"Don't ye fuckin' _dare_ ever do that ta me again, Murphy Diarmuid MacManus!" Annabelle yelled, pulling him back into her arms. "If ya ever do somethin' so fuckin' stupid again, I'll kill ye."  
Murphy shrugged, wincing as that irritated his shoulder, which he realized now was bound in a sling. "I don' regret it, Ma. I had ta save Devin."  
"Well, I can't blame ye fer that," Annabelle sighed, smoothing back his hair.  
"Where is she? Is she alrigh'?" he asked.  
"She's at home, sleepin' I hope," Annabelle replied. "Alright enough, considerin' the man she loves has hovered at death's doorstep fer the past three days."

Murphy winced. Three days? Shit, he hadn't meant to worry Devin so. He'd have to make it up to her…

Sighing, Murphy relaxed into his mother's gentle caress. It was strange to see Annabelle MacManus so tender and openly emotional, but he wasn't about to complain.

"Murphy," Annabelle said hesitantly. "There's somethin' ya gotta know. When the doctor came ta look at ye… The gunshots, they were so serious…"  
"Ma?" he asked, worried now.  
"Ye can't be a Saint anymore, Murphy," she blurted out. "Yer heart can't take the strain. An' yer leg… the doc isn't sure yeh'll be able ta walk, least not wit'out a cane."

He'd long wondered what it would feel like, when the moment came that he was relieved of his burden. Would he feel liberated? Lost? Angry? Ecstatic? Now the moment was finally here, and he felt… at peace. Perhaps it was because this news had already been imparted by Rocco, and this was merely confirmation. In any case, he accepted it. He had his entire life before him, and much to do.

"I know," he told Annabelle. "An' it's okay. There's more fer me ta do."

**

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**

Fidelis

Annabelle had finally managed to force her home- quite possibly because after nearly three days of sitting by Murphy, not sleeping or eating, merely clinging to his hand and praying with all her might that he be saved, Devin had nearly keeled over when she tried to stand. Annabelle had sunk into Devin's abandoned chair as Connor picked her up and carried her home. Once Connor had brought her into her room, Niamh had laid down on her bed with her, curling around her and holding her to keep her in one piece through the state of catatonic shock she seemed to be trapped in. She was supposed to eat, sleep, and shower- instead, she hadn't moved off the bed since Connor lay her down. She didn't sleep, no; though the bed was soft and warm, she could find no sleep. It was all she could do to lay there, curled in on herself as Niamh held her, while her thoughts chased themselves around in a dizzying flurry.

The past three days were a blur, really. From that awful moment when her hand had come away from Murphy's back slick with blood, nothing had seemed real. Nothing except how pale and still Murphy was, how limp his hand was, how shallow his breathing. She had spent three days clinging to his hand, changing his bandages, blinking back useless tears.

Why was she doing this? Up until the moment Murphy was shot, she had hated him- well, okay, maybe not so much _hated_ as _been incredibly angry with_. She had let him go, had resigned herself to the fact that they couldn't be together. Why then was this so hard? The Lord wanted Murphy; let Him take him! What did she care?

She winced. Oh, she cared. God knew how she cared. She could say she was angry and she could try to convince herself that she hated him, but she loved Murphy with every fiber of her being, and she knew now that nothing would ever change that. For better or for worse, she was going to love him until the day she died, and probably longer than that.

What could be done about it now, though?

The Calling had been fulfilled, she was sure of it. God had released his Angels; they were free. Noah had spent the night before sitting with her, and had told her that the Saints' Calling was also fulfilled.

But was she free to be with Murphy?

He'd made it quite clear that he didn't want marriage or family. And yet… he'd tattooed Cillian's name over his heart. The last thing he'd said to her were words of love. Was it so far-fetched to wonder if there was a future for them after all?

She didn't bother asking if that was what she wanted. She knew that was what she wanted. But did he? How did they even begin to have that conversation?

But none of this mattered until Murphy woke up.

…

God, he _was_ gonna wake up, wasn't he?

She must have whimpered, because Niamh's arms tightened around her, and her twin was humming a lullaby in her ear. Devin closed her eyes, curling into as small a ball as she possibly could.

What was she going to do if Murphy didn't make it? What if he died and left her? An image of her life without Murphy flashed before her eyes, and the thought of it made a sob escape her throat. Immediately, Niamh clung to her, holding her as she finally collapsed in the tears she'd been holding in for three days. She couldn't handle a life without Murphy, she couldn't.

God couldn't be so mean as to give her freedom and take away the only thing that made freedom worth it… could He?

**

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**

Diligo

How many long years had passed since the kitchen witnessed such a scene as this? It had been a nightly ritual, once; Noah sitting at the table, a mug of dark tea in his tattooed hands, as Annabelle straightened the kitchen, prepared stew for the next night's dinner or packed the boys' lunches. It had been over 25 years, but tonight it was as though not a day had passed.

Of course there were signs that the times had changed. Both were gray, wrinkles encroaching on faces that had seen the joys and hardships of long years. Each was exhausted from the three-day vigil they had kept, praying ceaselessly to God to spare the life of their youngest child. Each face revealed the great joy and profound gratitude that God had answered their prayers.

But for now, Annabelle was content to pretend that the past 25 years were but a dream. She was more than happy to ignore the passage of time, tonight.

She didn't turn from the broth she was making for Murphy as she spoke. "So, this entire fool business is over, then?"  
She didn't have to look back at Noah to hear the smile in his voice. "Aye, Annie. It's over."  
"It fuckin' better be," she growled.

Noah smiled to himself as he sipped his tea. Yes, his tenure as a Saint was finally over. He had been released, would now be allowed to live out the rest of his life in peace. There were grandchildren to spoil, friends to become reacquainted with, and Annabelle to love. He let out a contented sigh; he couldn't ask for anything more.

**

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**

Veritas

It was a violent sunset, the winter sky painted with dramatic reds, oranges, purples, and blues. He'd long since gone numb despite being wrapped in his peacoat and a blanket, but still he sat beneath the willow tree, engrossed in the silence of Tearmann.

He'd known from that horrible moment three days ago when Murphy was shot that it was over. The Saints' reign had ended.

He should have been relieved. Their ordeal was over- no more living in the shadows, no more relentless pursuit of evil. They were free, now. Noah would without question remain in Carrick-On-Suir with Annabelle; Murph would recover from his brush with death and marry Devin. Connor should have been happy, relaxed, at peace.

Instead, he was merely numb.

He didn't feel the peaceful contentment of his da and brother. Instead, he felt restless, uneasy, his fingers constantly itching to squeeze the trigger of his gun.

The Saints' mission was over.

Was Connor's?

Why didn't he feel like he could hang up his gun? Why did his Calling feel more urgent than ever? Why did the peace that enveloped Noah and Murphy not extend to him? What was he to do?

He'd come to Tearmann to be alone, but he'd known that sooner or later Niamh would find him. So he didn't move as she sat beside him, a look of utmost caring and concern painting her features. She laid a hand on his shoulder, silently waiting for him to share his thoughts.

He turned his head to look at her, blue eyes meeting green, a million thoughts flowing between them as his secret came to light.

"I can't stop."

The words came out in a near whisper, coated with shame, fear, resignation, determination. She looked at him for a long moment, no judgement in her eyes, before nodding slowly, telling him she knew. They looked at each other in silence before she turned her head to look out at the river.

"We'll think of somethin'," she said softly.

They said no more. Her hand remained on his shoulder, his hand rested on top of hers. They merely sat there in silence, and watched the sun set on the time of the Saints.

**

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**

Guide to Latin

[translations from tranexp .com]

Haven: 'heaven'

Diligo: 'lovers'


	16. Capitulating to the Inevitable

**Author's Note**: By the time I wrote this chapter, I thought my characters had gotten over revealing plot points that screwed up earlier chapters. I was proven wrong. I'd gotten halfway through this chapter when I realized that as I visualized this scene, I saw Murphy needing a cane. But I'd never written him getting shot in the leg. So I had to go back through the previous couple of chapters and put in enough references so that his cane would make sense, because Murphy refused to give up his pimp-cane [his words, not mine]. I think the existence of that cane proves I've watched far too much Harry Potter and spent way too much time writing about the Malfoys.

Also, I've been waiting to write this chapter ever since that scene between Murphy and Devin in the cemetery. I think the scene between them in this chapter is my apology to myself for what I did back then. Anybody ready for something happy?

By the by, the last POV is a flashback, which is why it's italicized. I wasn't sure how obvious that would be, hence this note. The italicized scene takes place two days before everything else in this chapter. Enjoy!

Oh, and final note for Sean Patrick Flanery fans: go rent _10 Inch Hero_ and thank me later. This goes for whatever Jensen Ackles fans may be floating about, as well.

**Special Thanks**: Thanks to Bitch Goddess, eXsTorDiNaRiLy InViSiBlE, mischieflover, Snoopy, DemiTeazer, and CaptainMc for the reviews! They make my day. Also thanks to everyone who's added me to Favorite Story/Author lists and Alert lists, words can't express how much I appreciate it.

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Trado

It had long been a tradition of the MacManus and MacCoy families to spend Christmas Eve together. Every year, the clans would converge at one home or the other to exchange presents, share peace and joy, and enjoy their ever-converging clan.

This year, the gathering at the MacManus home was especially joyous. What with Noah home for good, the Saints officially retired, and Murphy on the way to recovery, the MacManacoys had much to celebrate.

Murphy sat in a quiet corner, propped up in a ridiculously comfortable old armchair. He was incredibly grateful to be down here, despite the occasional twinge of pain from one healing gunshot or another; he'd been confined to bedrest since he got home. The doctor had made a special allowance for him to move about today, if he took it easy, and that was why he didn't mind the holly walking cane [with a phoenix done in brass as the handle on top] he was forced to constantly have by his side.

Idly, he ran his thumb over the metal, thinking. The doctor had no idea if he'd ever be able to walk on his own again; apparently the bullet had caused significant nerve damage in his leg. Ironic, really; he'd been shot or shot at multiple times, but it was this final gunshot that truly damaged him. Apparently the Almighty was making sure he'd never attempt to return to his Calling? Honestly, there was no fear that he would. Murphy had walked away from that life; he had no desire to go back.

Quietly, he leaned back and watched his family's merriment as they passed out Christmas presents. Perhaps he wasn't ever going to return to his former life, but he _was_ anxious about something tonight. No one was happier than he to see this Christmas Eve with his family, but he found himself incredibly antsy, impatient to give his one present.

He'd known exactly what he was going to give to Devin the moment he woke up from his three-day coma. The idea was probably divinely inspired [or at least, Rocco-inspired], not that that diminished his resolve any. To be honest, he'd been chomping at the bit in the past two weeks. He'd almost given her the present early about ten times; only the thought of how perfect a Christmas gift it was kept him from jumping the gun.

Murphy leaned back, his blue eyes thoughtful as they fell on his twin. Connor sat on the ground, his back supported by the couch. In his lap was Niamh, all smiles as she opened her present from him- a golden necklace with a curlicue pendant representing the wind and a gift card to her favorite shoe store. He had to smile as he watched them; now _this_ was an interesting situation. Murphy hadn't been so completely lost in his own misery that he'd missed the arrangement Connor and Niamh had. He'd have to be blind- and very, _very_ deaf- to miss that. Personally, he was really fucking amused. He'd always known that Connor and Niamh would end up in bed…

And yet, Murphy saw as clearly as Connor didn't how serious the situation was. Something crept into Connor's eyes when he thought he was unobserved- a deep happiness and contentment that had never been there before. There was a certain smile that crossed Connor's face, a smile that only appeared when he looked at the youngest MacCoy.

If Connor wasn't already head over heels in love, Murphy thought, he very soon would be. And Murphy couldn't be happier for his brother. Connor needed someone to take him down a peg or two.

A moment later, all thoughts of Connor and Niamh were pushed out of his head, because Devin crossed back into his line of vision.

He'd barely seen Devin in the two weeks since he'd woken up. Perhaps that was understandable; he'd heard in great detail how terrible those three days of his coma had been for her. How hard she had cried, hadn't allowed herself to eat or sleep, how tightly she held his hand and how ceaselessly she prayed. Really, Niamh could be a bitch when she wanted to be; the details she'd shared had practically killed him.

Murphy sighed. He fully intended to try and make everything up to Devin… if only she'd let him.

He had to smile to himself; he was behaving exactly as he had ten years ago. He was unable to keep his eyes off her, just as when he was a teenager and she'd been all he could see. She wore a white dress with an eyelet lace overlay and black sash, a black cardigan, and she'd even donned shoes with a small heel [how Niamh had managed to force the heel-loathing Devin into those shoes, he'd never know]. She wore a simple gold lavalier necklace, small gold hoops, and thin gold bangle bracelets, her claddagh shining on her finger. As always, she looked beautiful.

He waited until after the presents had been distributed and no one was paying attention to walk over to Devin, who by this point was propping up the doorframe, a glass of dark red wine in her hand. Her green eyes fastened on his as he approached, and he could tell she was assessing how severe his limp was, how hard he was gripping the head of his cane. He stood before her, and for the longest moment they didn't speak. They merely looked at each other, a million words being said at once.

"Come fer a drive with me," he said softly.

She nodded, and made to move into the hall, but he grabbed her arm before she could. He glanced up, looking back at her as she followed his gaze to the mistletoe that hung innocently from the doorframe above their heads. She looked at him, but there was no protest in her gaze as he leaned in and sealed his lips on hers, as both capitulated to the inevitable.

It was soft and short and sweet, but it sealed their fate. They grabbed their coats and headed to the car, not seeing Noah and Annabelle watching them go, or Noah wrapping his arms around Annie's waist from behind as they both smiled.

**

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**

Iugum

He drove them through the darkened, snow-covered country, headed for town. They drove in silence, but it was a comfortable quiet. Devin had no idea where they were going, but what did it matter? So long as they were together, she was fine.

She furrowed her brow as Murphy stopped the car. "The church?"  
"Aye," he nodded. "Padriac'll be home after one last little thing. He's a marriage to perform first."

She nodded, then froze as it sunk in. She whipped her head around to face Murphy, losing her breath when she saw how serious he was.

Perhaps he should have been down on one knee, making some effusive, passionate, incredibly wordy speech about how he couldn't live without her, how she was the blood in his veins and the air that he breathed, that he wanted her to make him the happiest man in the world by being his bride because without her he would surely die.

He didn't. He wasn't able to kneel at present, and those tearful proposal speeches ripped straight from a trashy romance novel had never been his style. He merely took her hand and placed it over his heart, his gaze piercing her to her very soul and saying everything for him.

And against that, she was helpless.

They said not a word as they got out of the car and entered the church where Padriac was waiting for them. They didn't need to. They needed no words to confirm what each knew- that they'd been inevitably drawn to this moment since their reunion in September, that this was where they were always meant to end up, no matter what anyone- including they themselves- said.

**

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**

Professio

_It was funny, Murphy thought to himself. He'd spent half his life in the MacCoy house, had known this family since he was an infant. You'd think it would be impossible for him to be uneasy._

_Then again, he'd never come to the house with the intention of formally asking Padriac and Aileen for their blessing. Even when he and Devin had been engaged at the age of 17, it had been with the implicit understanding that Murphy would someday come to ask Padriac for Devin's hand._

_Now, ten years later, he was finally here to fulfill that promise._

_He walked into the kitchen, not bothering to knock; both families had long since become used to people walking in and out, and it was easier than trying to keep track of seven children and all their friends. Everyone was extended family if they entered the MacManus or MacCoy homes._

_He walked into the living room, pausing in the doorway when he saw Aileen sitting on the couch. She looked up, freezing when she saw him, staring as if he were a ghost from the past. He looked at her, the woman who had aided Niamh in keeping Devin from him, who had helped with the lie. He should feel infuriated, he knew, or at least hostile. But he felt nothing. The mistakes of the past didn't matter; after all, he could hardly blame her for protecting Devin when he'd done the exact same thing himself. The past didn't matter anymore; the important thing was now. _

"_Aileen, where's Padriac?" he asked. "I've a question ta ask him."  
_"_Upstairs, in 'is study," she said._

_He nodded and limped towards the stairs, gripping his cane. He'd just gotten to the staircase when a soft voice stopped him._

"_Murphy…"_

_He turned to look at Aileen again. For a moment she stood there helplessly, biting her lips and wringing her hands. He was struck then by just how much Niamh took after her mother; not only their physicality, but also their impetuousness, their reluctance to admit they were wrong, their stubbornness. His musings were cut off when she drew a deep breath._

"_I'm sorry," she finally said, shame and regret coating her words. "It was wrong, what Niamh and I did, even though we only wanted the best fer 'er. Yeh've always been the only man fer Devin, I see that now."_

_He nodded, both in acceptance of her apology and in thanks for her approval of him. Then he walked upstairs to Padriac's study._

_The MacCoy patriarch sat behind his desk, his gray head bent over the account ledgers he insisted on keeping by hand, despite the urging of his children to discover the computer. When he sensed someone at the door he looked up, and a smile of welcome grew on his face._

"_Murphy, m'boy," he said. "Come in, come in, sit down. Yeh shouldn' be standin' on that leg so much, leastwise not yet."  
__Murphy smiled and walked in, though he remained standing before Padriac's desk. _"_I promised ye once, that when the time came I'd do everythin' properly," he said, running a nervous hand through his messy dark hair. "So I'd like ta ask ye fer Devin's hand, if she'll still have me."_

_Padriac then did the improbable- he laughed._

"_Well, it's about time, lad," he grinned._

_When his mirth had died somewhat, he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands, considering Murphy for a long moment with a loving paternal eye. At the same time, Murphy watched Padriac. If Niamh was just like Aileen, then Devin was her da's girl. They had the same stillness, the same sardonic humor and deep love in their eyes. When Padriac spoke, his voice was full of contentment._

"_We always knew the two o' yeh were meant fer each other," he said. "From the time you were wee babes. When yeh left Ireland, it broke me heart as well as Devin's, fer I'd been waitin' fer the day I could truly call ye my son."_

_Padriac stood, walking to Murphy and resting his hands on the younger man's shoulders._

"_I don' need ta tell ye ta take care o' me girl, yeh've been doin' it all yer life. So I give ye my blessin' an' wish wit' all me heart fer yer happiness."_

_Murphy smiled, a lump in his throat as he hugged the man who had been his surrogate father after Noah left. Yes, he would take care of Devin. He'd give her the happy ending for which they'd waited so long._

**

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Guide to Latin

[translations from tranexp .com]

Trado: 'surrender'

Iugum: 'union'

Professio: 'declaration'


	17. Where Do We Go From Here?

**Author's Note**: I call this the Buffy chapter. Probably because I've watched the musical episode [Once More With Feeling] far more times than is healthy. You know it's bad when lyrics start worming their way into the chapter without you even thinking about it.

It's kind of a filler. Had to set up what's gonna happen from here on out. But I put in a couple of Connor/Niamh moments to make up for the fact that nothing really happens. Enjoy!

**Special Thanks**: Thanks to mischieflover, eXsTorDiNaRiLy InViSiBlE, Bitch Goddess and Snoopy for the reviews! As always, you make my day.

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Tripudio

Carrick-On-Suir was used to parties. The townsfolk loved nothing more than to gather in the town square to eat, drink, and be merry. Every wedding, christening, funeral, major school event, or religious holiday was greeted with a big town festival. There would be food and drink provided by the restaurants, pubs, and bars; every store would contribute to the market bazaar; and there would be dancing late into the night.

At first, no one thought anything of the fact that Fr. Padriac had been the one to call the party on Christmas Day; he was the town priest, after all, and a MacManus besides. Fostering community spirit was his calling as a priest; partying was his duty as a MacManus. And if the food provided was traditional for a wedding feast, no matter; the good Father always performed a lot of weddings around this time.

As a matter of fact, it wasn't until everyone had finished eating that Padriac dropped his bombshell on them.

"My dear friends!" he said, standing and holding aloft his mulled wine. "I thank ye all fer comin' ta feast with me. I've so much ta thank the Good Lord for this Christmas- not only ta celebrate the birth of his Son, but also the return o' me da an' the twins, and the marriage o' me little brother."

Heads shot up in surprise, not the least of which were Connor and Niamh's. The MacManus and MacCoy families stared at each other, counting heads, slowly realizing who wasn't at the feast with them. Padriac grinned at his family's shock.

"So raise yer glasses wit' me, if yeh will," he said, "an' help me toast to the happiness o' Murphy an' Devin MacManus!"

There was a moment of stunned silence as Devin and Murphy walked out of the inn before everyone broke out into wild applause. The kiddies cheered, ecstatic that pretty Aunt Devin and Uncle Murphy were finally married, as all the siblings stared at each other in shock. The entire town had waited for this announcement since the bride and groom were children; what a Christmas miracle had finally come to pass!

At Padriac's signal, the music began. Smiling from ear to ear, Murphy pulled his wife out to dance. He'd never again be able to step dance, but this slow, sweet melody he could handle. And even if he couldn't, there was no way he was denying his girl a dance. He wrapped an arm around her, forcing a disapproving Padriac to take his cane for the time being so he could lace his fingers with hers. She sighed, melting into him and holding him as though she'd never let go, which quite honestly he was perfectly fine with.

"Is tú mo ghrá, mo chuisle," he whispered, resting his head against hers.  
"Is breá liom tú ró, Mac," she murmured, holding him as close as his injuries would allow.

Thirty feet and a million miles away, Connor and Niamh swayed to the ballad, fingers interlocked, keeping close because of the chill [or so they told themselves]. They didn't speak, at least not with words, but with their locked eyes they had an entire conversation.

Most of the conversation was greetings. Between Connor helping his brothers with needed house repairs so Annie could tend to Murphy, and Niamh trying to remind Devin to take care of herself, they'd had not a moment to themselves.

Was their affair ruining their friendship, as they'd feared?

It was certainly changing things. It was harder now, much harder to spend time apart. When they were together, it took only a single look to change the mood from tranquil companionship to white-hot passion. There were times when Connor couldn't think straight, when Niamh lost every vestige of control. But was that bad?

Where on earth was this affair headed? Was it going anywhere at all? Could this new relationship grow, or was it only playing second fiddle to what they already had? Where did they go from here?

These questions had been going through their heads for weeks now, but for tonight they need not find an answer. For tonight, they need only dance.

Connor pulled Niamh closer, wrapping an arm around her just so as her head rested against his shoulder as if it belonged there. Their fingers laced together, their body heat mingling. He closed his eyes and rested his head on hers as he breathed in the scents of her green apple shampoo, her pear-scented body wash, the light floral scent of her perfume, the indefinable scent coming from her skin. Her essence invaded his very core, wrapping around him, entangling every cell in his body.

No, he had no idea what the fugure held for him, only that he knew he'd never get Niamh out of his system, nor was he sure he ever wanted to.

**

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Ludicium

They hadn't planned it, but all three of the former Saints knew that the discussion had to happen. So none of them were surprised to be sitting around the kitchen table in the wee hours of the morning.

Noah had been the first awake, walking downstairs for a cup of the tea he was so hopelessly addicted to. Connor had been in next, returning from a sleepless but very productive night spent in Niamh's bed. Almost on his heels had been Murphy, come from the inn in town where he and Devin were spending their honeymoon.

For a long while they sat in silence. Noah sipped his tea, Murphy massaged his stiff leg with a grimace, Connor stared into space. Finally, the elder twin spoke first, as he usually did.

"What now, Da?" he asked, running a hand through his blond hair.  
Noah let out a long exhale. "That's fer each of us ta decide. As fer me, I'm stayin' here. As if yer ma would let me go again," he said, his eyes dancing with mirth.  
"Dev wants ta stay, as well," Murphy stated. "Settle down, start a family."  
"Will yeh stay in Carrick-On-Suir?" Noah asked.  
"Pro'bly not," he said. "She said somethin' about Galway, maybe. A place o'erlookin' the ocean."  
Noah nodded. "An' you, Connor?"

Connor was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, he got the distinct feeling that Noah had already known what his decision would be, long before he voiced it.

"I'm goin' ta Boston," he said quietly.

Murphy's head shot up, shocked; he'd never even once considered the possibility that Connor would return to their former life.

"Are ye mad?" he asked his twin. "It's over, Con! We're fuckin' done!"  
"Enough, Murphy," Noah said, laying a restraining hand on his son's arm. "Our task is finished. Connor's journey is jus' beginnin'." He made the sign of the cross in the air before Connor. "May ye have the protection o' Heaven an' all His blessed saints," he murmured. "May the angels guide ye on yer way."

And so their paths were set.

**

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Novus Orsa

Connor sighed as he packed his bags. Just because he'd known he would be leaving Ireland alone didn't mean that he liked it. As a matter of fact, he hated it. He'd never been on his own in his life; his brother had always been there beside him.

Now he was striking out on his own, and he found he was completely afraid. Could he live on his own? Could he kill on his own? Was he a Saint if he didn't have his brother and da beside him?

He sighed. He was about to find out.

And he'd never felt so alone in his life.

He sighed, staring out the window as his fingers caressed his beloved Beretta. He felt whole again, finally complete now that his gun was back in his hand. He felt lost, unsure of how to proceed, but perhaps he could find his way again.

He would follow through with his oath, but it was a bleak existence he was returning to. A large part of him envied Murphy and Noah. Part of him wanted to be at peace, as they were. Yes, he loved his Calling to destroy evil, but he wanted a life, too. Maybe someday he could have that. But for now, the Calling was overwhelming. There was no way he could turn his back on it. So he would press on, alone.

"A very dramatic pose yeh've taken there, Manny," came a voice from the door.

He turned, one corner of his mouth turning up to see Niamh walking into his room.

"Now stop yer mopin', it's fuckin' depressin'," she said. "This isn' one o' yer movies, stop posin' fer the camera."  
"What're ye doin' here, love?" he asked.  
"Noah told me yer plans," she replied.  
"Did he, now?" Connor asked absently.  
"Aye, he did," Niamh said. "I'm goin' wit' ye. An' don' ye fuckin' _dare_ try ta tell me 'it's too dangerous'. I'm as much a Saint as you."

He looked at her thoughtfully, thinking it through. Sure, Niamh wasn't Murphy, but had he really expected to spend his entire life doing everything with his twin?

…

Alright, maybe he had. But that clearly wasn't going to happen now. Murphy was retired, clearly aching to start a family with his new wife. Connor and Niamh apparently had the same problem- a Calling that had yet to let them go. Why not work with his best friend? It would take adjustments, but surely it wouldn't be that hard.

"Alrigh', Bright Eyes. You an' me," he nodded.  
She nodded, smirking. "Besides, if we work together it'll be easier ta enjoy each others' company," she said, a moment before she grabbed his collar and pulled him down to her level.

Just before she drove him to distraction and forced all thought out of his head for three hours straight, he realized it wasn't at all how he'd planned to go about his Calling. He'd figured he would be like the Lone Ranger, or Zorro. But after all, the Lord worked in mysterious ways. Maybe, with his Angel at his side, the former Saint would find his purpose.

**

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Guide to Latin

[translations from tranexp .com]

Tripudio: 'dance'

Ludicium: 'decision'

Novus orsa: 'new beginning'

**Guide to Gaelic** [translations from translation .imtranslator .net]

Is tú mo ghrá: 'I love you'

Is breá liom tú ró: 'I love you too'


	18. Return

**Author's Note**: This chapter took forever to write, not the least reason being I had to figure out exactly what the hell Connor and Niamh were going to do now. The second reason was that once again, Devin decided to drop a bombshell on me [once again shattering my illusion that my characters were done messing my plans up]. The third reason is that this is a really passive chapter. No action really happens; it's kind of just setting everybody in place for where they need to be for the next chapter. I hate when that happens, but every once in a while you just have to move the chess pieces around. Fourth and finally, I had to do a last-minute edit based on some fantastic reviews from readers, so thank you for that, and enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: Once again, I borrowed a bit from the sequel. Couldn't help myself, it was right there. Had to do it. So yeah. I don't own that bit, don't sue me.

**Special Thanks**: Thanks to my amazing beta George for deciding who Connor and Niamh are going after next. He's twisted, but that's why he's amazing.

Also thanks to mischieflover, eXsTorDiNaRiLy InViSiBlE, Bitch Goddess and Snoopy for your reviews! Y'all wanted to know what Con and Nee are up to now? Read on.

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Veritas

Connor had always enjoyed his Calling. He loved dispensing justice to the scum of the earth; sometimes he wondered if he loved his job a bit too much, if his taste for vengeance made him a bit too much like his prey. But for better or worse, this was Connor's life and passion. This was a family Calling, and Connor had been more than happy to stand at his brother's side, and later his da. But the days of the Boondock Saints were now over.

It had been six months since the death of the Saints of South Boston and the Angels of New York. For six months, Connor had been living with the constant, driving need to empty his Beretta on the scum of the earth.

After leaving his da and twin in Ireland- quite possibly the single hardest thing he'd ever had to do- Connor had brought Niamh to Boston. He'd intended to hit all of the old spots with her- the Sin Bin, the last remnants of the Yakavettas or the Russians. Unfortunately, not even the protection of the BPD and FBI had been enough to protect them; the city was far too hot. It had been fucking depressing, until Niamh suggested they relocate to New York. When she returned to her job at McGuinness and for all the world seemed perfectly content, Connor stewed in the apartment, sometimes dashing out to pop a cap in a pimp or to raid a strip club when the Call grew too strong to wait for her.

Granting, he couldn't complain about his current living situation. Niamh's Brooklyn apartment didn't leak, it was air-conditioned, and no one paid any attention to him at all. And having Niamh so close made persuing their… whatever the fuck this was… so very, very easy.

But while it had been a good six months, it was time to get back to business. Preferably before he lost his mind.

They'd done several jobs, but nothing spectacular. A pimp here, a drug lord there, but nothing like the mobsters that both were used to. Connor wasn't sure what Niamh was waiting for, but he figured it was time to hurry the process along. If it had been he and Murph working…

It wasn't fair to compare working with Niamh to working with Murphy, he knew that. But God, did he miss his brother. He couldn't get used to being without him; the two had spent all their lives together. There'd hardly been a single thing they'd done without each other, and their synchronicity was so severe that sometimes they looked like robots. It was weird for him, not having Murphy to share jokes with, or fight with. Yeah, he could call Murph whenever the fuck he wanted, but… it wasn't the same as having him face to face. Not to mention that Murph was so wrapped up in being married that it almost seemed like he was a different person. He'd never thought that the Calling would separate him from his brother, but it looked like that's what had happened, and he hated it.

He'd had several conversations with Niamh about how they should go about this business. Niamh was a good 9" too short to shoot as the Saints did; Connor 3" too tall to kill like an Angel. The only thing they could do was combine tactics. If they stood back to back, Niamh could shoot through the base of the neck while Connor took out the back of the head. Their bullets should cross somewhere around the mouth, which would make for really cool bullet trajectories. Pennies on the eyes and a cross between folded arms would announce the new alliance. They'd probably end up arguing about what gun to use and what targets to go after, and even what prayer to say, but that was an argument for later. The first step, he supposed, would be to alert Smacker and the boys at the Boston Police Department, to let them know about the change of MO.

He glanced up from the newspapers spread across the kitchen table when he heard the soft _snick_ of the door opening.

"Connor!" Niamh called as she rushed in. "Manny, pack yer bags, we've got a job ta do."  
He cocked an eyebrow, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Yeh picked a target, then?"  
"Aye, an' it should keep us busy fer quite a while," she replied, tossing him a paper while she went to the trunk in the living room where the guns were kept.

Connor glanced down at the headline, and then his eyes widened in understanding.

"Yer insane," he said. "We can't do this."  
"Why no'?" she asked. "Yeh've got friends in high places, don' yeh?"  
"Not as high as all tha'," he said warily.  
"Surely Smecker's got connections, though," Niamh said, brushing him off. "This is a good idea."

He stared down at the newspaper, turning the idea over in his mind, sensing the puzzle pieces falling into place.

"Aye," he nodded, a familiar look of determination blooming on his face. "Ta Boston, then."

After a helter-skelter car ride that he swore would never be repeated, Connor left Niamh to settle into the hotel while he went to the BPD.

"Connor MacManus," Detective Duffy grinned. "Haven't seen you around for a while."  
"Aye, we've been outta the country," Connor nodded.  
"Yeah, I heard Murph was pretty badly hurt," Duffy nodded. "How's he doin'?"  
"Better," Connor shrugged. "Doc says he'll pro'bly always need a cane, but he kin walk now. How've things been here?"  
"Quiet," Duffy replied. "Since you took out the Yakavettas there's been shit goin' on. Everybody's terrified the Saints are comin' after 'em."

Connor grinned, patting himself on the back and allowing himself a moment of pure egotism before Duffy brought him back to the present.

"But if you boys are back, I guess that means it's gonna get busy again."  
"Aye, that's what I came ta talk to ye about," Connor said. "There's been a bit of a change in lineup. Da an' Murph are retired now, believe it or not. From now on it'll be me an' Niamh- one o' the Angels," he explained.  
Duffy nodded. "Easy enough. Tell me the target, I'll get in touch with Smecker."  
"Yeah, we'll need 'im fer this," Connor said.

He rubbed the back of his neck as he muttered the group he and Niamh intended to conquer. Duffy stared.

"You're insane," he said. "You're absolutely fucking out of your goddamn mind."  
"Her idea, not mine," Connor weakly protested, though he had to agree with Duffy's assessment.  
"Do you have any idea how fucking impossible this is?" Duffy asked.  
"That's why we need Smecker," Connor stated.  
Duffy let out a puff of air that was either a chuckle or a sigh of despair. "You're gonna need a helluva lot more than that."

**

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Fidelis

Peace, they say, is the enemy of memory.

So it had been for Murphy and Devin MacManus. Six months it had been since they laid down their guns and took up their vows. Six months since they'd moved to Tuam, County Galway. Murphy had taken a job as a carpenter, since he was good with his hands but still needed his cane. Devin had taken a job at a studio, teaching little girls how to dance. They went to Mass every morning, talked to their parents and siblings at night. They flirted with the idea of restarting their family. For six months, there was peace.

Then, suddenly, it was back.

Murphy didn't say a word, but then again he didn't have to. To Devin, who noticed every minute detail of her husband's life, it was a clear as if a flashing neon sign stating THE SAINT HAS RETURNED floated above his head.

For six months, Murphy had been completely at ease. There was always a smile on his face, a twinkle in his open, happy eyes. He had radiated peace and contentment. Now, however… The wary tension had returned, knots reforming in his back that Devin had just finished massaging away. His smiles were smaller now, tigher; his eyes were always watching. The overpowering intensity of the Saint was back. Murphy was under the sway of his Calling once more.

Devin didn't understand it. Murphy had assured her when they married, as if she hadn't known herself, that the long nightmare was over, the Calling complete. A phone call to Annabelle confirmed that Noah had felt no resurgence of the Call; why did Murphy?

Shortly thereafter, Murphy began prowling the streets. Not a word was said, but again, not a word was needed. Murphy's boots were again caked in mud, his Beretta once again smelling of being recently used. Saint Murphy was back in action.

Devin was horribly worried. She said nothing, but she knew that Murphy wasn't the man he had been. He could no longer move as he once had, wasn't as flexible. And he was now working alone, meaning he had no one to help him if he got hurt.

She would have volunteered, but it would do no good. Her Calling hadn't come back. Even if it had, she knew Murphy would never agree to her returning to their dangerous business, not when he couldn't protect her. And even if by some miracle he did let her come, she would still have to refuse him; both she and Murphy agreed that pregnant women had no business risking their lives.

She hadn't told him yet. But she had to figure this problem out, and soon. She refused to raise another child without its da.

A transatlantic call to her twin revealed that Connor and Niamh were once more on the move. Devin would have been content to write off Murphy's behavior as synchronicity with his twin… but then why was she not as agitated as Niamh was?

Why had the Calling returned?


	19. Clarity

**Author's Note**: We are drawing terribly close to the end of this story. Sad, but true. All good things have to come to an end eventually, right? The next chapter is the last one. But I don't want to focus on how this story is nearly over; instead let's talk about this chapter, shall we?

Y'know, if I'd known how easy it would be to write from Smecker's POV, he would've been in every single chapter. Especially the chapters that made me want to cry because they were so difficult to write. That being said, Connor made me laugh really hard while I was writing his POV. I enjoy this chapter, hope you do too!

**Disclaimer**: I didn't pick Smecker's middle name. Took it straight from the sequel. Don't blame me or sue me for it.

**Special Thanks**: Thanks to mischieflover, eXsTorDiNaRiLy InViSiBlE, and Bitch Goddess for the reviews!

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Susceptor

There were days that FBI Special Agent Paul Maximillian Smecker lived for. Days that challenged his absurdly intelligent mind, days where the air damn near crackled with the promise of adventure. He'd had days like that when he first started hunting the Saints, and later when he became their ally and sometime accomplice. Smecker loved those days.

This was not one of those days.

Since becoming a friend and ally to the Saints of South Boston, Smecker had been doing everything in his power to manipulate their case from inside. He sent other officers on false leads, and obscured any trails that might possibly lead anywhere close to the boys. At times he'd even sent them information to help them in their vendetta.

But he'd never prepared for this.

Initially, he'd had to admit, he'd been enthusiastic when Detective Duffy called and informed him of Connor's new plan. Hadn't he once said that he wanted to up the stakes, take the Saints' mission to a whole new level? So when he heard who Connor and his delightful new partner wanted to take on, he'd been all for it. He'd called in some favors, gotten his hands on a long list of targets, gotten Connor and Niamh a reliable contact who'd already infiltrated the system, and patted himself on the back for a job well done.

Predictably, bodies had started dropping like flies. And then more bodies- not on Smecker's list, but not surprisingly accomplices. Everything had been going well; even the media had been more enthusiastic than usual.

Apparently, his good luck had run out.

Contrary to popular belief and conspiracy theorists, the FBI and the CIA were not one big, happy, diabolical, conspiracy-planning, information-gathering family. Matter of fact, they cordially hated each other, each deeply suspicious and mistrustful of what the other was doing.

Smecker had been summoned to a private meeting with the CIA concerning the case in Boston.

This was not a good day.

Outwardly, Smecker was calm as he was escorted to a private room deep in the heart of the New York CIA building. Internally, his mind was working a million miles an hour. How much did they know about the Saints? How could he protect both his job and the boys' identities? How could he paint this mission in a good light?

"Good afternoon, Agent Smecker," a stern, bald man greeted him as he walked into the highly secure conference room.  
"Gentlemen," Smecker briefly greeted the five men, who he recognized as the heads of both the FBI's and CIA's committees against terrorism.

Oh shit. This was most definitely _not_ one of those days.

"Can you guess why you're here, Agent Smecker?" their apparent leader spoke again.  
"I would imagine it had something to do with the fact that an Angel of New York and a Saint of South Boston have joined forces to take out Al Qaeda operatives on American soil," Smecker replied, pushing his jacket back as he shoved his hands in his pants pockets.  
"Please, have a seat," the leader said, motioning to a seat at the table.

Smecker sat, making himself as comfortable as he could be when facing down the five senior agents. It was like sitting before a goddamned firing squad.

"We know you've been in contact with the vigilantes at least since they began focusing on terrorists," the leader said, folding his hands on the table.

Smecker sighed, leaning back in his chair as he rested one Italian calfskin loafer-clad foot on his opposite knee. So he'd been caught at last. He'd always known it would happen; the truth would always out, after all. And he didn't regret one damn thing. He just wished the ride could've been longer.

"So what's it to be, gentlemen?" he asked conversationally, smoothing his tie. "Life in prison on accomplice charges or just taking away my badge and fining me?"  
"Neither," the leader said abruptly. "We want to use them."

Smecker raised a silent eyebrow in disbelief. Sure, he'd joined the dark side and gone rogue, but the joint committee asking to use illegal means to eliminate the threat?

Apparently the Lord really did work in mysterious ways.

Maybe this was one of those days, after all.

"We'll cover the costs and provide protection in any manner they need, if they'll agree to work primarily overseas," one of the suits said.  
"That's a very interesting proposition," Smecker said. "I'll relay your offer. I'll have an answer for you by the end of the week."

Smecker smiled to himself as he left the conference room and began the walk to his office. Oh yeah. It was one of those days.

**

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Aequitas

Sometimes, Murphy really wished the Lord's ways weren't quite so mysterious. He got a headache trying to work out all the mixed signals.

It had been a month since the Calling returned, and Murphy had no idea what to do with it. He and Connor had never really made plans; things just happened, and the Saints reacted. That mode of working had never failed them before.

But things weren't just happening for him now, and he wasn't sure what to do about it.

He would have thought he was just making a mistake, that his Calling hadn't really returned, but… his fingers wrapped around his Beretta as if they belonged there. His evening walks more often than not turned into patrols of the city, and he often wound up killing some evil bastard.

But the kills didn't feel the same as they used to. He didn't feel fulfilled, as he once had; he just felt empty. So if his Calling wasn't for vigilantism… then what?

He was at peace this afternoon, though. Devin had persuaded him to walk downtown with her. The July air was sultry and warm, and Devin was a glowing ray of sunshine as she walked beside him. It was a perfect afternoon.

He didn't pay much attention as Devin pulled him into a store, but when he got inside he froze. Cribs… rockers… strollers… blankets and stuffed animals… His throat tightened as he stared around the baby store, his mind on the son he'd left in Heaven. After a moment, he refocused on Devin, who was wandering through the place with a blissful, dreamy smile on her face.

"Devin?" he asked, walking towards her. "Are yeh tryin' ta drop me a hint, love?"  
"No," she said, turning to face him. "I've somethin' ta tell yeh, Mac."

She said nothing more, merely placed the hand that didn't grip his cane and placed it against her stomach. He stared at his hand, then at her as it clicked, leaving him numb and stunned. With a whoop he grabbed her, crashing his lips on hers as the news sunk in and the numbness gave way before an overwhelming joy.

They left the store 45 minutes later, after purchasing a crib, changing table, dresser, and stroller- he'd promised to make her a rocker himself. They walked towards home slowly, basking in the sun and the knowledge that in seven months they'd be parents again.

It took only moments, the weakest cry from the alley, to transform the expecting parents back into the avenging angels.

They were down the alley in a flash, Murphy moving as quickly as he had before the accident. Ten seconds, a few bullets, and the child molester was dead.

Two seconds later, and the Calling was perfectly clear to them both.

Devin leaned down, cradling the five-year-old girl in her arms, shushing her as the little girl clung to her and sobbed. Moments later, Devin had ascertained that the girl's name was Maggie, and she was an orphan who had run away from her foster home- it had been her foster father attempting to abuse her. And the Calling took her back with a ferocity that almost frightened her, a twin intensity to the maternal bond that bound her to the little girl in an instant.

They looked at each other and nodded before heading home, Devin carrying the traumatized Maggie. In the morning they would have to find a house large enough, and put through the paperwork with the government, and they would begin gathering as many orphans as they could care for.

Not death, then, but a Calling to life.

Murphy smiled to himself. Yeah, that was a clear enough divine message.

**

* * *

**

Veritas

There were times when Connor wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss Niamh or kill her.

Right now he was leaning towards the latter.

"Jaysus fuckin' Christ, Niamh!" he snarled. "The idea is _not_ ta get killed ourselves!"  
"Lord's fuckin' name, MacManus," she shot back, wiping the blood from her arm. "I wasn't gonna let 'im kill yeh! Besides, 'e's dead now, an' I'm fine. Don' even get me started on you."

He rolled his eyes, pressing a makeshift bandage over the wound in his calf. Why did he put up with her, again?

They'd been in Yemen for a few weeks now, and had worked out a routine. Their CIA contact, who'd infiltrated deep into the Al Qaeda organization, would give them the habits of their target- how much security they had, where they went, how many innocents were there. Connor and Niamh would do some observations of their own for a couple of days, and then they'd do what they did best. The FBI would ensure nothing leaked out to the press, while the CIA would move them to their next location.

And every single time, Connor and Niamh would end up having some variation of this argument, which usually ended up with them duking it out in bed.

He'd discovered a very definite downside to working with his… whatever they were [they really needed to sort that out]. Sometimes he forgot whether he was there to kill evil, or to protect Niamh. Take today's mission; there had been more security than they'd counted on, and Connor had snapped into bodyguard mode, taking a glancing hit in his leg trying to protect Niamh's back. She in turn had gotten nicked by a bullet trying to cover him. They'd managed to kill everyone, of course, but the whole thing could've gone much more smoothly.

After a three-hour Jeep ride in the glaring, oppressive sun over bumpy terrain, they were safely ensconced in their headquarters, a former palace and stronghold of Al Qaeda bigwigs. It was being used by US military as a base of operations, and they were under orders to pay no attention to the comings and goings of the two 'CIA operatives' who were living there.

Niamh closed and locked the door, then turned to face him, a scowl on her face and her hands on her hips.

"I appreciate yer deep-seated need ta play knight in shinin' armor, but I'm not a damsel in distress needin' yer protection," she snapped, walking forward to pull off Connor's jeans so she could look at the damage.  
"No, yer just me partner who insists on takin' stupid risks an' leavin' her arse unprotected," Connor snapped back, smacking the area of anatomy in question.

Niamh jumped and glared at him, but he could see the flash of desire in her eyes behind the anger, and suddenly he had a very good idea how the rest of this argument would proceed.

"I suppose this," he grabbed her arm, glaring as she winced in pain, "is not needin' protection?"  
"No, this is what I get fer tryin' ta save yer stupid arse," Niamh snapped, grinding her knuckles into his calf and smirking as he hissed in pain. "Looks like the damsel in distress is you, Manny."  
"I'll show you damsel in distress," he growled, a split second before his lips crashed on hers.

By the time they'd worked out their frustrations, the sheets were on the other side of the room, the mattress was seriously askew, and both of them had re-opened their wounds. And yet they didn't move to correct any of this, each much too interested in how alarmingly well they fit together.

"Are we just gonna keep on doin' this forever, then?" he asked, resting his head on hers. "Bickerin' worse than you an' me brother do an' then turnin' around an' fuckin' like mad?"  
He felt her tense beside him. "If yeh want ta stop this-"

He tilted her head up, branding her as his in a single, passion-filled kiss.

"Yeh don't listen well," he said mildly when he could finally bring himself to tear his lips from hers. "I was jus' suggestin' that if we're gonna continue this, we make it a more permanent thing. I saw yeh flirtin' with those soldiers, I'd prefer ta keep me woman ta meself."

Niamh rolled her eyes, but voiced no objection as he kissed her again.

"Mine," he growled, rolling them so she was pinned beneath him. "Yer mine, Niamh MacCoy, you understand?"

He had her screaming affirmations before he was satisfied that she understood that the only one to kiss or kill her would be him.

**

* * *

**

Guide to Latin

[results from transexp .com]

Susceptor: 'protector'

**Notes about Places of Evil**

I used Google to find countries where Al Qaeda had strongholds. I picked Yemen because… well, basically, because I knew where it was and I liked the sound of it.


	20. Heaven Help Us

**Author's Note**: I've been delaying posting this chapter, because I haven't wanted to end this story. I've loved writing it, I've loved posting it, I've loved how much everybody loves it. And now it's over. This makes me incredibly sad. I do love where I ended things- and no, there will be no sequel. I thought about it briefly, but… no. The story's ended itself. As a kind of epilogue, I will post a final chapter [I intended it to be a oneshot, but why not put it with this story, seeing as it's about the same people?]. After that, though, I'm putting these characters to rest [did you hear that, MacCoys? No more driving me insane with your insistence that I write with you!]. I hope you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I've loved writing it. This is _Aequitas, Veritas, Parilitas, Fidelis_, signing off.

**Special Thanks**: A million thank you's to my beta George for the million ways he's helped me throughout the months I've written this story [in this chapter, it was helping me pick a gun for Connor and Niamh to use].

Additional thank you's to my friend and fellow writer Sandra, who always listened with a sympathetic ear when I started complaining about how my characters were killing me.

And thank you to you, for reading this story and putting up with my evil, evil mind. Thank you for your reviews and raves, for putting me on your story and author alerts and lists, and for loving these characters as much as I do.

**

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**

Veritas

If you had told Connor MacManus a year ago that in twelve months' time he'd be killing terrorists with Niamh MacCoy by day and killing her in a completely different sense by night [and late afternoon, and early morning, and sometimes during lunch], he'd never have believed you.

The past year had been very much on Connor's mind lately. He'd experienced more developments and setbacks in the last twelve months than he had in the twelve years before that. It had been the wildest year of his life… but he had to wonder if that was such a bad thing. If he hadn't undergone such turmoil, would he have ended up with Niamh beside him?

Probably not. And he rather liked having Niamh beside him. So all in all, he wasn't too upset with how the year had gone.

He should have been focusing on the mission, he knew; he and Niamh were about to attack a hornet's nest of terrorists. But he couldn't focus on the job, and he knew he didn't need to; he could conduct a job while sleepwalking by this point.

Instead, he was focusing on the call he'd gotten from his twin that morning. After berating Connor for not mentioning where he was going, Murphy had triumphantly announced that Devin was expecting.

And ever since receiving that most joyous of calls, Connor had been in a fog.

He'd never planned on getting married and settling down, he mused as his Colt M1911 pistols began to sing. He'd been perfectly prepared to spend his life single, married only to his Calling. He'd never thought about having children, or leading a [somewhat] respectable life. He wasn't Murphy, after all; despite the synchronicity he'd never seen the appeal of being with just one woman for the rest of his life.

Then again, he'd never counted on falling in love with his best friend, either.

How had it happened? he asked himself as he mechanically reloaded his clip. More importantly, _when_ had it happened? Had it been when they agreed to work together? Or had it been their restaurant date after that huge fight about Niamh's lies… hell, maybe it had been the moment he'd found her in Boston. Or maybe this was something that had been there since they were children, and it had been growing all their lives. Maybe it didn't matter _when_ it had begun, only that it was here _now_.

And unlike his idiotic twin, Connor had no intention of letting Niamh go.

He blinked, taking in his surroundings for the first time all morning. He stood in the midst of death. Blood and bodies were everywhere. Christ, had they done all that? He looked up, pushing his mask up onto his forehead. Niamh was skipping through the mass carnage, giggling to herself as she folded the dead men's arms over their chests, a cross on each sternum, pennies on the eyelids. The image was so absurd that he wanted to laugh, but it was words that tumbled out of his mouth instead.

"Fuck, woman, I love ya. Marry me."

He froze. Now wait just a minute, why on God's good green earth had he said that? Even if it was true? He should have proposed in the right way, with music and candles and a fucking violin in the background. He could have at least waited until he had a ring.

She glanced up at him from where she squatted beside a corpse, pennies in her gloved hand. "Not right now, I'm a bit busy," she blithely said.

How fucking typical for them, he bemusedly thought. He couldn't manage a proper proposal, and she couldn't give him a simple 'yes'. He grinned to himself as he rushed over to her and spun her around; despite all the changes of the past year, it was good to know that some things never changed.

**

* * *

**

Una

It was a couple of weeks before Connor and Niamh could get off work, but they somehow managed to get to Ireland in one piece and were married by Padriac on October 12. Annabelle and Aileen were overjoyed and rather smug that their children had finally figured out what they'd known all along, and had ensured that Connor and Niamh's wedding was a huge affair, giving them everything they hadn't been able to do for Devin and Murphy's surprise nuptials. Everyone in both families had come home to celebrate, and the reception had lasted until dawn.

Two days after the ceremony saw the newlyweds, Devin and Murphy, and Noah sitting on the elder MacManus' porch, enjoying the warm autumn day. Devin, cushioned by several pillows, sat on the porch swing stroking her nearly five months pregnant belly, Murphy's arm around her shoulders. Their adopted daughter Maggie [who oddly enough had hair in the same reddish gold as her aunt, and eyes the same blue as her father] sat on the wooden floor by her grandda's feet, playing with his Irish setter Maeve. Connor and Niamh sat in one of the deep porch chairs, her in his lap, as they tried [and failed] to keep their hands off each other. Noah sat in the other chair, beaming at them all, a mug of tea in hand.

"I'd never have expected any o' this ta happen," Niamh said, happily resting her head on her husband's while she watched her new niece, wiggling her finger to get used to the unaccustomed weight of her ring.  
"Really?" Devin asked, her trademark half-smirk on her face. "I coulda told yeh you'd be marryin' Connor. Though I admit the job threw me fer a loop."

Niamh stuck her tongue out at her sister, but otherwise didn't comment. Noah smiled at them all.

"It seems yeh've all been put exactly where yeh need ta be," he said. "Connor an' Niamh carryin' on wit' the Calling, Murphy an' Devin givin' new life to the dead."

They all nodded, contemplating that. Having taking out all the main operatives in Yemen, Smecker had told Connor and Niamh that they were going to be relocated to Somalia- but not for a few months, so they could enjoy being married first. Meanwhile Devin and and Murphy's orphanage, Hopewell House, was flourishing. They'd added a school for disadvantaged and impoverished children to the mix, and worked closely with their local priests to find homes for their charges.

"It's not the life I'd imagined fer meself," Devin said thoughtfully, her eyes on her daughter.  
"It's better," Niamh grinned, finishing her twin's thought.

They all smiled at each other in complete contentment, until the chirp of Devin's cell phone interrupted them.

"Hello?" Devin said, leaning back into Murphy's arm. "Mhm… Uh-huh… What?"

Her face froze in shock, her hand flying to her stomach. The others shot glances around, instantly tense. Devin had already lost one child, could the Lord really be so cruel as to give her more grief?

"Uh-huh… Yes, of course… Thank you. G'bye."  
"Dev?" Murphy asked, his voice rough with concern.  
"That was the doctor," Devin said blankly, staring at him. "She was lookin' over the sonogram again…"  
"Yeah?" he asked, the fear building.  
Devin looked at him in awe, a stunned smile growing on her face. "We're gonna need another crib."

They all froze for a moment before they exploded in celebration. Murphy lunged forward to kiss Devin as Connor and Niamh laughed and cheered, while Noah tossed Maggie into the air and congratulated her.

"Twins," Murphy said, resting his forehead against Devin's.  
"Heaven help us all," Connor irreverently added, a twinkle in his eye.

Much had changed for the MacManuses and the MacCoys. But God, what a wonderful future lay ahead…

**

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**

What's Next For PerfectDisaster22

It's official; the next story I'll be posting is the sequel to my Harry Potter fanfic, _In The Darkness I Remain_. I'll be writing the _long_-awaited third part to my Van Helsing saga between posting chapters. As for my career in _Boondock Saints_ fics, I have at least one oneshot in the works; after that, I don't know! I hope to see you at the other stories, but if I don't, it's been a great ride. Thanks a lot, guys.


	21. Happily Ever After

**Author's Note: **When I finished writing _Aequitas, Veritas, Parilitas, Fidelis_ I thought I was done writing BDS fiction. However, halfway through posting the story, I got hit with this idea. I know it's fairly common in the world of BDSFF, but I really couldn't help myself. After everything I put the MacManuses and MacCoys through in the story, I couldn't resist doing this for them. And, y'know, I really didn't want to end the story, so here's one last hurrah. Enjoy the adorableness!

**Disclaimer**: Still don't own Connor or Murphy. Devin, Niamh, Liam, Owen, Maggie and Eva are mine, though. Originally I had planned to post this as a oneshot, so if there is repeated information or a writing style better suited to a one-shot than a story chapter, that's why.

* * *

Hopewell House well deserved its reputation as one of the best orphanages in Southern Ireland, despite the fact that it had only been operational for five years. The orphanage remained small, caring for around twenty children at a time. The founders of the orphanage worked closely with the local church and the country's adoption agencies to give their charges loving homes. The children were firmly convinced that their caregivers were angels, and that their adopted daughter Maggie was the luckiest little girl to ever live.

Today, the usually well-run orphanage was a madhouse. Murphy MacManus had shooed his wife Devin off to spend the day with her twin sister while Murphy and the children prepared a surprise party for Devin's birthday. And when Mama was away, her chickadees would play.

Murphy headed down to the kitchen mid-morning, gripping the head of his cane. Normally, he no longer needed his cane to walk, for which he was profoundly grateful; it was difficult to keep up with 23 children and his wife when he was hobbling on three legs. Today, though, he'd woken up with the telltale twinges in his hip, the ones that meant heavy rainfall and pain. Not the best day for him to try and corral the orphans on his own. Fortunately though, it was a weekday. He'd managed to bustle all the children to the bus stop after the morning feeding frenzy, leaving him only with his own kids- ten-year-old Margaret Caitríona [universally known as Maggie] was sick with the flu, and his twins Liam Alastar and Owen Keelan were only toddlers. As Murphy made himself a cuppa [Jesus, he was getting too much like his da with his tea addiction], his cell phone rang.

"Oi, Murph!"  
"Mornin'," Murphy greeted his brother. "Where are ye?"  
"Headin' ta yer place," Connor replied. "Eva wants ta play wit' 'er cousin, an' I figured you could use help settin' up fer the girls' party."  
"Ye thought right," Murphy said. "Door's unlocked, come on in."

As Murphy hung up with his twin, two dark-haired little boys sprinted into the kitchen, giggling and babbling at each other.

"Me boys!" Murphy grinned, lifting Liam into his lap while Owen clambered onto the table. "Ye didn' wake yer sister, did ye?"  
"Unh-uh!" four-year-old Owen shook his head.  
"Tha's a good lad," Murphy said, kissing both boys' cheeks. "Yer Uncle Con's comin' over wi' Eva, d'ye like tha'?"  
Liam made a face. "She's a _girl_!" he whined.  
"Aye, tha' she is," Murphy nodded. "But ye'll have yer uncle ta gang up on!"

The boys giggled, leaping to the floor and demanding food.

"What? Ye jus' had breakfast!" Murphy exclaimed, mock-horrified.  
"Oatmeal! We're hungryyyy! Pleeeeease, Da?" the twins pouted, jumping up and down.  
"Oh alrigh'," Murphy relented, standing to spoon them more oatmeal. "Where's all tha' food go, huh?"  
"My toes!" Owen exclaimed, as Liam laughed.

Murphy laughed along with his boys, a warm feeling spreading through his chest. Had he and Connor been like this when they were little? Were these the moments his parents had lived for? For the millionth time, Murphy sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty. His Calling meant nothing in comparison to this.

There was a sound of dogs barking, a door opening, and voices. A moment later, Connor walked into the kitchen, his and Niamh's three-year-old daughter Eva on his hip, while the three dogs [Maggie's, Devin's, and the orphans'] trailed him.

"An' what've we got here, then?" Connor asked.  
"Unca Con!" the boys squealed, leaping off their chairs and attacking Connor's legs.  
"Ah, tryin' ta attack me, are yeh?" Connor growled.

He handed Eva to Murphy before lunging, grabbing Liam around the middle and flinging him over his shoulder while Owen clung to Connor's free arm, all three of them laughing as Connor spun in a circle.

Eva giggled, clapping her hands. "Da's silly," she grinned.  
"Aye, yer da's a loony," Murphy grinned, shifting to get a better grip on his niece. "Le's get you up ta Maggie, yeah?"  
"Yeah!"Eva cheered, wrapping her little arms around him.

Nudging the dogs away with his cane, Murphy headed for the stairs, then down the hallway to Maggie's room. The room was painted pink and was ballerina-themed, tutus and ballet slippers strewn across the floor with dolls and books. Maggie herself was laying propped up in bed, holding her stuffed monkey named Bunny and looking quite sick.

"Look who came ta visit ye, Miss Maggie," Murphy smiled, carefully traversing the sea of toys and depositing Eva on the bed. "Now, Maggie has ta stay in bed till she feels better, but I kin put in a movie for ya?"  
"Kin we play tea party, Da?" Maggie asked hopefully.  
"O' course, mo chuisle," he smiled, heading for the door.  
"Will you play with us, Unca Murph?" Eva piped up.  
"Oh no," he shook his head. "Tea parties're fer you princesses."  
Maggie pouted, the pout she knew from experience would get her da to do whatever she wanted. "Pleeeeease, Da?"  
Confronted with such a face, Murphy was helpless. "Alrigh', love. Get the costumes."

The girls cheered, Eva jumping off the bed to get the needed dress-up clothes. Shaking his head, Murphy walked back to the kitchen to make a pot of Irish breakfast tea. He passed Connor and the twins in the living room, making a mess with glitter, glue, markers, and scissors.

"Wha's all this?" he asked.  
"Dec'rations! Fer Momma!" Owen grinned.  
"Well lookit that," Murphy grinned. "They're fantastic, boys."  
"What're you up to?" Con asked.  
"Makin' tea fer the princesses' tea party," he responded.  
"Well isn't that nice," Connor said, a shiteating grin on his face. "Are ye gonna join 'em, Princess?"  
"Shut up, ye ass," Murphy muttered, heading to the kitchen.

But Connor just followed his little brother, mocking him as they got into the kitchen. Murphy rolled his eyes; some things never changed, despite the fact that they were 33 and married with children.

"How's work goin'?" he asked, to change the topic.  
"Same as always," Connor shrugged, leaning against the counter. "We leave Shannon fer a weekend, fly out ta the fuckin' desert in the middle o' nowhere, shoot some motherfuckers and risk gettin' killed, yell at each other fer takin' too many risks, then come home like nothin' happened."  
A faint grin played across Murph's face. "I'm amazed ye haven't killed each other yet."  
"Oh, it'll happen," Connor replied, shaking his head and grinning. "She kin be more irritatin' than you."

Murphy tossed wet tea leaves at his brother's head, but otherwise didn't respond. Connor laughingly ducked them.

"Ye look good, Murph," he observed. "Happy."  
"I am," Murphy nodded, pouring the tea into a floral patterned teapot. "The orphanage is doin' well, Dev's happy, we've got the kids… life is good."  
"Even without the Callin'?" Con asked.

Murphy paused for a moment, considering the question. It had been nearly five years since a gunshot to the hip had ended his vigilante career as a Saint. Did he miss it?

"I miss it, sometimes," he nodded, getting milk and sugar and cookies. "The rush, an' the joy. But…" he looked around the kitchen, a look of supreme contentment on his face. "This is where I belong."  
Connor nodded, leaning against the counter. "There are days when I envy ye, you know that?" he asked, looking around the kitchen.  
"Ye should be envyin' me everyday. I got the beautiful wife, you got… a handful," Murphy smirked.  
"Don' ye dare start teasin' me wife, she'll hit ya in the bum hip," Con laughed. "Go upstairs an' enjoy yer tea party, Princess."

Murphy gathered everything onto a tray, then frowned when he realized that he couldn't carry it and his cane at the same time. Silently, Connor grabbed the tray for him. He didn't make a big deal of it, so as not to embarrass his brother, but he was quick to take it when he saw the trouble Murphy was having. Con teased his little brother about a good many things, but never when it came to the cane. He'd almost lost his brother that day, and that was a thought that still occasionally gave him nightmares.

The brothers headed upstairs together, to find Eva and Maggie all ready for their party. Both were in dress-up dresses that Devin had made for them, with crowns and plastic jewelry. They looked up when they heard Connor and Murphy, grinning.

"We're all ready!" Maggie giggled. "Aren't we, Countess Glitter Sparkles?"  
"Yes we are, Duchess Pink and Lace," the countess, otherwise known as Eva, nodded. "We just need the tea. Oh! An' we're waitin' fer Lady Sugarplum Tiara!"

Connor snorted, almost succeeding in biting back his laughter. Murphy hit him in the shoulder before walking around to the far side of the bed, where a big floppy hat, pink feather boa, and white lace shawl were waiting for him. Silently groaning at his forced emasculation, Murphy donned the girly wear, batting his eyelashes and adopting a ridiculous falsetto.

"Sooo sorry about me tardiness, me dear Countess an' Duchess," he trilled as Connor left. "But the cook was takin'a horribly long time ta get our tea. Good help is so hard ta find these days."  
"Tha's very true, Lady Sugarplum Tiara," Maggie nodded gravely. "Would ye do the honor o' pourin' the tea?"  
"Me darlin' Pink and Lace, I would be delighted," Murphy cooed, before pouring three cups of tea. "Glitter Sparkles, please do help yerself ta cookies."  
"Thank you, Lady Sugarplum," Eva grinned, grabbing a big handful of cookies.

Connor managed to hold his tongue as he left the girls to their tea [and yes, he fully included Murphy in 'the girls'], but once he hit the stairs he laughed long and loud. They might be 33 now, but Con was still the same little boy he'd always been, and he delighted in every chance he got to make fun of his twin.

When he got back down to the living room, he blinked in confusion. There was glitter spilled all over the coffee table, glue mashed into the carpet, paper scraps everywhere… but no Owen or Liam. This was not good; Owen and Liam were frighteningly like their father and uncle had been when they were that age. If they saw a chance to run off, they would take it without a second thought.

"Fuck," Con muttered, scratching the back of his head. "Owen? Liam? Where've ye run off to this time?"

He checked all of the twins' usual runaway spots- the kitchen [where the cookies lived], the attic [where the delightfully weird furniture and odds and ends became forts and mountains], the basement [where the basement monster lurked], the front and back yards, every last tree on the property. And still nothing. Oooooh this was not good. He hated to go upstairs and tell Murphy, but… the safety of his nephews trumped the teasing he would get for losing the boys.

"Murph!" he called as he jogged upstairs.  
"What?" came the irritated question.  
"The boys're gone!"  
"WHAT?"

Murphy ran out of the room on three legs, the feather boa somehow only adding to the panic in his eyes. Murphy tersely ordered the girls to stay in their room as he ripped off the costume, and the brothers ran downstairs, Connor grabbing the guns from his jacket while Murphy grabbed one of his old Berettas, just in case [old habits die hard]. They sprinted outside, adrenaline helping Murphy to ignore the pain in his hip when he abandoned his cane, calling for the boys.

"Da!"

Murphy veered a sharp left at the sound, coming around the corner of the garage to see the boys covered in mud. Evidently they'd been throwing it at each other- or wrestling, possibly. Either way, they were covered head to toe, and giggling. Murphy sighed in relief, dropping his gun and hurrying over to them, while Connor drew a deep breath and sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty.

"Jaysus Christ, boys, don' _do_ that ta me!" Murphy exclaimed, falling to his knees and scooping them up, mud and all.  
"We didn' leave!" Owen said. "We stayed right here!"  
"Momma said we could play outside if we didn' leave!" Liam added.  
"Yeah, but yer s'posed ta _tell_ someone when yer goin' outside!" Murphy said.  
"There was no one ta tell!" Liam protested.  
"Yeah! Unca Con lef' the room an' you were upstairs wit' the girls!" Owen nodded.

Murphy shook his head, groaning as he got to his feet. Upon seeing his wince, Connor took Liam from Murphy's arm, balancing him on one hip.

"Le's get you boys cleaned up before yer ma sees ya an' shoots me," Murphy said.  
"Bu' that means a _bath_!" Owen protested, with all the righteous anger of a four-year-old boy.  
"Aye, an' tha's what ye get fer running out without tellin' us," Murphy said.

The boys both protested all the way up to the bathroom, but Murphy wouldn't be budged. One way or another, the boys were getting bathed. With the synchronicity characteristic of their elders, Owen and Liam prepared to throw a royal fit, but Uncle Connor's promise to be the one to bathe them placated the twins. Uncle Connor always made bath time fun.

After a silent conversation that consisted of shared glances, raised eyebrows, and a glare from Connor, Murphy capitulated to Connor's silent demand that Murphy take painkillers. Connor took charge of the twins while Murphy headed back to the girls [leaning heavily on his cane], stripping them of their filthy clothes while the tub filled, then popping them in.

"So what's it ta be today, boys?" Connor asked as he squatted by the tub. "Soap crayons? Bubble bath?"  
"Pirates!" Owen exclaimed.  
"Pirates, eh?" Connor said, grinning; pirates may or may not have been his favorite bathtime game. Squinting one eye shut, he frowned and growled, putting on his best pirate drawl. "Arrrgh, and where be me booty, ye scurvy dogs?"  
"Hidden!" Liam giggled.  
"Ye'll tell me where it be, or I'll 'ave you sunk!" Connor exclaimed as he splashed them both.

Both Connor and the bathroom floor were soaked before bathtime was over, but the boys did end up getting clean, and Connor had never found the boys' hidden treasure. This of course put the twins in a very good mood, so they submitted easily when Connor told them they all needed to clean up the living room.

Before they knew it, the kids were coming back from school, and the afternoon took off with its usual small catastrophes. Mary couldn't find her kitten… Peter and Michael were teasing the little girls again… Clara couldn't get the birthday cake to rise… the kids were arguing over who was going to set the table and who was going to blow up balloons… Murphy had to grin to himself as he walked through the house, solving one problem after another. God, how he loved this orphanage he and Devin had built up together. This Calling suited him exactly. He had all the twitchy energy of the children under his care, and all the protective instincts of his former life. He was a father for all the fatherless, and he _loved_ it. Let Connor have the bullets and adrenaline, Murphy had everything he needed.

Well, maybe not quite everything, he thought as he glanced at his watch. Where on earth was his wife?

"I see Mama's car!" Catherine exclaimed.

A moment later, all the children had taken up the cry, and were crowding around the window. Murphy gently pushed aside a few of the kids to see Devin and Niamh getting out of Devin's car. He smiled to himself; whatever the girls had been doing with themselves today, it had apparently done Devin some good. She looked relaxed and easy, as if the stresses and cares of the past few months had been peeled away from her.

"Everyone hide!" he exclaimed, waving his hands.

Instantly, everybody scattered, diving behind furniture or into closets. Connor ushered Eva, Liam and Owen into the hallway closet while Murphy hurried upstairs, bundling Maggie up in her pink robe before they snuck down the stairs, waiting for the door to open.

It seemed to take forever, but finally they could all hear the scraping of the lock, and a creak as the heavy wooden door opened on its ancient hinges. There was the click of Niamh's heels and the soft tread of Devin's chucks as they got into the foyer.

"Hullo?" Devin called as the door shut. "Where are ye all?"  
"SURPRISE!"

They all popped out at once, jumping up and down and laughing, rushing forward to embrace Mama and Aunt Niamh and to wish them a happy birthday. Devin was borne into the living room on a sea of happy children, where they ensconced her in her wingback armchair and all chattered at once.

"Where's me babies?" Devin asked, hugging and kissing every child who reached for her.  
"Here we is!" Liam exclaimed as he and Owen hurled themselves into their mother's arms.  
"An' yer sister?" Devin asked, pressing her cheek to the top of each head.  
"With Da!" Owen said, pointing.  
"Ah, there's my bonny wee Maggie!" Devin said. "How's yer fever, love?"  
"She broke it this afternoon," Murphy replied, wading through the children to kiss Devin's forehead.  
"You gotta open yer presents now, Momma!" Owen said. "Before Unca Con an' his pirates take 'em all!"  
Devin cocked an eyebrow, glancing up at her brother-in-law. "What've you been tellin' 'em this time?"  
"We played pirates in the bath!" Owen giggled.  
"Let's get Mama her cake!" Connor exclaimed in a very obvious attempt to deflect attention from that afternoon's mishap.

The party raged through cake and ice cream and Devin and Niamh opening their presents as Connor and Murphy congratuated themselves on keeping Devin from finding out that they'd temporarily lost the boys. Hours later, after homework had been done and children bathed and put to bed, the MacManus and MacCoy twins sat in the living room, trading fond memories and 'do you remember's.

"We've 'ad a good time of it, these past years," Connor remarked, shifting Niamh on his lap while sipping his beer.  
"Aye," Murphy nodded, sighing contentedly. "An' now we're gettin' old."  
"Who're you callin' old, Murphy MacManus?" Devin asked, frowning.  
"Connor, o'course," Murphy grinned.  
"Ah, fuck you," Connor replied good-naturedly.  
"They're learnin'!" Niamh grinned. "Wasn't that long ago Connor would've tackled Murph for sayin' such a thing as that."  
"Hard ta tackle him when you're in the way," Connor said, grinning up at his wife. "'Sides, he's a bum hip, he's clearly the old one."  
"I'm not fuckin' old!" Murphy retorted.  
"Would you boys please behave before I throw ye out?" Devin asked, stretching. "I'll have no fightin' on me birthday. Now where's our presents?"  
"Ye mean ya didn't get enough from yer kids?" Connor teased her.  
"We haven't gotten our presents from you," Niamh said, folding her arms. "Cough up."  
"What if I didn't get ye anythin' this year?" Connor asked, blinking up at her innocently.  
Niamh frowned. "Then yer sleepin' on the couch."  
"Well fuck," Connor said. "It's a good thing I got ye this, then."

He handed Niamh a long, skinny package wrapped with a red ribbon, which she happily ripped open, her eyes widening when she saw the three-stone drop diamond pendant inside.

"Like it?" he asked.  
"It's beautiful," she breathed.  
"Fuck me, Con," Murph said. "When'd you get so fuckin' gay?"  
"Shut the fuck up!" Niamh frowned.  
Devin raised an eyebrow at her husband. "It's romantic, not gay."  
"No, _this_ is romantic," Murphy said, handing Devin a wrapped package.

She opened it up to find a red bikini, two plane tickets to the Bahamas, two tickets for a cruise ship through the Caribbean, and a pair of ruby stud earrings.

"We never really got a honeymoon," Murphy said. "I figured it was about time we did tha'."  
"What about the kids?" Devin asked.  
"Da already said he 'n Ma'd take care o' the place fer a week or two," Murphy said.  
"Aw, go on, Devin," Niamh urged. "Ye deserve a proper holiday."  
"An' you don't?" Devin asked.  
"Stop fightin' it, Dev," Connor said. "Yer goin' on vacation, get over it."  
Faced with all three of them ganging up on her, Devin was helpless. "Oh, alrigh'," she laughed.  
"Happy birthday, girls," Con and Murph said, each kissing his wife.

Connor and Niamh gathered up their half-asleep daughter and left shortly afterwards, heading for their own apartment. Devin sighed in content as she went about straightening up the house.

"…Mac?"  
"Aye, love?"  
"Why is there mud all over the kitchen?"

Just another day in Paradise.


End file.
